Do It Quick

Couldn’t sleep. Heart pounding a heavy metal beat with more palpitation than paradiddle. Ominous dreams. REM stress. Redundant alarm sounding at 0430 to remind me that no matter how I feel, how little I have slept, time, like ants, keeps marching. Where I don’t know.

I forgo the standard breath count and swing feet over bed to stand and start. Immediately I regret it and second-guess a consideration to return to the cozy warmth of my artificially heated crib.

By the time I carefully negotiate the treachery of the short-tread stairs and hit the bathroom, my gut has joined the queasy parade of bacterial imbalance. I brush my yellowing, cracking, ground-down teeth, gargle, eat 10 milligrams of anticoagulant drugs and look in the mirror.

Amazingly I look better than I feel. I think I do anyway. All this could very well be a sinister subliminal self gas-lighting ploy. The self I used to know seems to be a memory - leaving me as this pathetic imposter who keeps insisting that I am me.

On my way to the kitchen for hot water and lemon juice a ‘what the fuck is going on?’ cry escapes my soul like compressed air from a bicycle tube. It is the presta valve of my life, a two-way yin and yang no longer unscrewing and releasing, but stuck and non functioning.

I drink the juice and pour a cup of yesterday’s coffee into my favorite mug. I stick it in the microwave and check the outdoor manual thermometer through the window. it is March 23rd and 39 freezing fucking degrees. The only heat in my tiny cabin is upstairs in the form of the electric fitted sheet and the portable oil heater under the work station desk at which I currently sit. It appears that this time of year, THIS climate changing year, I need to be on one or directly in front of the other.

It could be that the stress from Dad’s passing, all that tangential trauma, has caught me from behind and dragged me to the turf with a nasty horse-collar tackle. I keep looking around for a flag but can’t see one. Somebody said the other day that I looked like I had just been hit by a truck. I replied that I have been hit by that truck, the one with shiny chrome hubcaps, so many times that now I just get up, dust off my pants and walk on.

There is lot’s to do. I finished the latest episode of PowerBarn video, send two follow up e-mails, washed the dishes and now I try writing (journaling or blogging) as therapy. Going to need more than a thousand words today.

There is a rumor circulating that Trump is going to fire Mueller today. I (kinda) hope he does.

So then we can, as the senator from South Carolina has predicted, start ‘the beginning of the end of his presidency.’

That would make all my petty little issues way more tolerable.

Do it quick.