Caution: Drunken Blogging Ahead!
Today had bad news written all over it from the beginning, in large, bold letters. I should have called in sick to work today, which I considered as soon as I hit snooze at 7 am. I should have stayed in bed all day, drifting in and out of sleep, reading children's books and forgiving myself for all my imaginary sins. But I didn't. Instead I went to work late and hated my job and started drinking at 6:30 pm.
So what should I write now? I would like to write about rhizomes and abundance, of a thousand tendrils springing from my cut tongue, of roots rupturing my spine. Of the way spirit moves in spirals, non-linear, mimicking the movement of the planets, the dance of electrons, the coalescing of our DNA. But I never understood what the hell Deleuze and Guattari were writing about and the starlight doesn't seem quite right right now, even with Venus low in the sky. And I don't have the words to describe the branching, the seeking, the urge for more more more. Always the urge for more more more.
Perhaps I should aim for something more mundane, like when the contents of my purse fell into the toilet at the bar, and how I am currently microwaving my wallet in hopes of destroying any well-meaning but unintentionally destructive bacteria that it may have picked up on it's brief sojourn into the waters of the johnny johnny john. Or maybe I should write about how I love the Arcade Fire. How they remind me of my childhood and those Bruce Springsteen songs I can't listen to anymore, because they always make me want to weep.
Perhaps I should write about how I feel the unfulfilled potential of my parents and their parents and their parents' parents on my shoulders. How it seeps into my own potential. How I am steeped in the unexpressed. And maybe that is why I had a drink when I got home. Except that I don't know anymore if the drink is to make me forget everyone's dreams or to remember them even more clearly, so that maybe one day I can touch them, taste them, admire their crisp edges.
Perhaps I should write about how I am over you. Which is true - which is so very true. Except that I haven't quite found something to replace the space you inhabited in my brain yet, the place of nurturing in which I mistakenly rooted you. Some kind of altar, I guess. I just don't understand who you are. Or maybe I do and don't want to face it right now. I guess I just wanted something true from you. Which is all I ever wanted from anyone. Which is all we we ever want from anyone.
Maybe what I should write is this - Note to self: Do not drink for 5 hours and then listen to the Arcade Fire. Nothing good will come from it. Just heavy-handed metaphors and drunk dials to exes asking them to explain their essence to you.