#328

Damn, people! What a failure of a man types at you through the fibers at this moment. The information of my keystrokes weighs down the photons in the fiber, deep in the ground, and slow the beam just ever so imperceptibly, data made leaden by the foolishness and antiperspicacity (???) of this one man. 

Don't know why I feel so low, on the balance. It's just that I don't write enough, probably, not into this blog and not into new books, and that I don't feel like I've read enough this year even though realistically, I have. Is it also that I didn't get one hundred percent of the points it was possible to get in all five classes I was taking, while still working and taking care of two cats and a man? I still have all A's, is that just not good enough? This is the mindset I was protecting myself from in high school; this type of thinking is what made my mother's happiness inaccessible to her for so long. Is it that my husband is depressed, his grandfather recently deceased, funeral attended just this week? Is it that I wasn't home all last week, but rather, alone in my parent's house with the family dog, not getting all the work I wanted to do done? Is it just spring, fucking with me like it always does? I think often of dead friends and former lovers. I look down into the gutter and reminisce about heavy drinking. I start three sentences in a row with "I", which I hate and hate myself for. 

Probably all those things. But as I say, everything is also fine. A beautiful woman gave me her phone number, completely unsolicited. Even if nothing happens, that has to be seen as an absolute win from every angle. I found a free, barely broken-into pack of my preferred brand of cigs while walking the dog, smoked one, and threw the rest in the garbage, which must also be taken as a huge victory. An A that is not 100% is still a motherfuckin A. Even a B is great, in context. Fuck it, man. Why does a dude have to feel so heavy of a time? 

"That's just the way o' things, laddie," the old Scotsman in my mind sighs at me around his pipe, clapping his weathered, callused hand on my incorporeal shoulder. "Won't know what 'tis t'know no burdens till th' angel comes tah take us home."

It is truly a blessing to be as weird as I am, because damn, that actually does make me feel a lot better. Thank you, strange ghost. Thanks.

*

More than anything at the moment I would like to do the Camino de San Juan, down from northern France all the way to Santiago de Compostela, where I will, at the end, not go inside, probably. The Camino is the point, and to do it barefoot. That's what I need. Maybe if everbody dies, I'll do exactly that. If everybody in my life died, it would make an incredible excuse to fly to Europe, leave all my belongings behind, throw all my identification and money into a river, and wander from hostel to hostel until I expire by the side of a road. That's the kind of morbid-yet-uplifting shit flitting through my mind these days. 

The end, no moral, no point, on-brand, hell yeaaaaaaa

--JL

p.s. my friend started a blog whose first post seems...aggressively directed at me? I dunno. Regardless, they're a much better writer than I am at all points of entry and exit, so if you're into advanced concepts, check it out.