Last night (several nights removed now) I ate spicy kukkik with chicken from the local Pho and Thai place native to the burg. The fallout (get it?) from that has yet to be endured, but as I finished, the bliss-agony of the inflamed broth was wholly worth it. I keep going on, doing things to this body, dulling its newness, down into decay. I'll miss it when I'm gone, but there is solace in that reality as well.
This cafe is full of beautiful women in various modes of conduct. Good Christ, send help. Last night, we made home pizza and I sat on the barstool at my kitchen island and watched A draw out the piping discs and rest them on boards and a rack and then she took up the copper accented and wooden handled pizza slicer that her parents bought us and she hacked through the crusty bread and molten toppings steaming up and up and up and I loved her more in that image than maybe ever before and she asked why I was looking at her like I was. The spell crashed.
I walked downtown today on a bad Achilles tendon (Christ is that older woman statuesque. I'm in a real time PVP art museum.). This morning I cranked up Dax Riggs and I saw one of the pictures of my old man and Mom on the wall in our trailer in Mississippi and the music truly grooved with that scene. Mystical and dark, Satanic, Mom would have called him, solely for the titles of his songs (Cassie Eats Cockroaches, Demon Tied to a Chair in my Brain, Living is Suicide, et al.) and various groups with whom he's been frontman (Acid Bath, Agents of Oblivion, Deadboy and the Elephantmen, etc.). There was a connection to a place, phantom I know, that infuses yet my crippled psyche, a vision of a vast river and wetlands and rot and completely divorced from the frigid sterility of the mountains.
Today I also prayed the rosary for the first time in a while. Joyful Mysteries, not necessarily my faves, but ones that focused me on the hyperperturbing nature of parenthood. I feel like there are things that I continually learn anew, in terrible and intimate ways. I could picture the surge of relief as Mary rushes to embrace the pre-teen Jesus on the steps of the temple. The other day my IRL bro posted a link about a possible extinction level asteroid strike at the end of this year and my brain went to the place where would I kill Uly and spare him the agony of obliquely starving in a post-human world or would I strive The Road fashion and shoulder on into the ashy dark of his being alive, in the current instant, in the obscene hope that he would survive, somehow.
Like my friend Nick says, "The trouble is being a writer."
1 comment:
Nah, Nick was wrong. The trouble is being human. Of which you are a most splendid example.
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