In a celestial moonscape of bad events one bad damn dream after another only to wake and find it is not sleep at all but it is being and living, it is trying to buy a cup of coffee and being asked to pay and saying just, what? what? what do I do now? Paying with small change from an old jar. Being that person in line, layers and scarves and buckets of change from stupid old jars.
Things have not been going well. Why lie? I’ll sit here and draft up some pink and purple prose on strawberry shortcake but my chest is wide open. I sleep all the time. I need to not sleep all the time. I need to Get A Plan Together. I need to Sell and Divide Shares. I need to Acquire and Assess Assets. I need to Graduate On Time and Submit Papers. I need I need I need.
What a tedious compendium of wants we subscribe to and chant back to ourselves and each other when all that is needed because it is all I am doing, let’s finally be honest, is wearing unsupportive flats on long walks in the new cold and arguing with people in Starbucks because I’m a jerk.
The writing has not been going anywhere because there is no writing you can do on the floor. The main encampment has been established on the floor and that is where I do all and best work, all work, which is no work. No work at all. It is always night.
Earlier today I googled a shitload of random phrases like “my life fucking sucks” and it’s amazing how many people either or both google and subsequently write about life sucking including, now, me, great, which is a scam in itself because I have ten fingers and ten toes and all my molars to the best of my knowledge and no major parasites at this time though I do occasionally take black walnut extract for its warding qualities. Who knows. Another 12 dollars diminished by way of the change jar and coins, this time to the health food store man who has always been pleasant and of a genial nature.
I wonder if he’s single.
My life does not fucking suck. God I am a baby. But that’s what shitty blogs like this are for, right? Blathering to the ether of nothingness like all the other busted girls when the hole in your heart is exactly and uncannily matched to the size and shape of your (ex) man’s sole of shoe.
So it goes and on it goes and on and on forever and ever Amen.
What I’m not doing is working. What I am doing is obsessively checking my email for who knows what purpose or reason. All I see and ever do find are strange sample sale ads from British companies whose whereabouts and affiliates I know not, plus news from eateries I can’t afford but secretly track, plus plaintive cries for help including this strange little tendril that came across the wires just yesterday from the man who, as it happens, actually introduced me to said ex. What a business, this life and our connectivity. I got so excited. I thought he might have some insight, some real thing to say, this matchmaker in a downtown bar come back at the eleventh hour to explain all mistakes and shortcomings, all hope for deliverance.
No. Check it out. It was just this:
Am so sorry to bother you, I am in Limassol, Cyprus for a week and I just misplaced my bag containing all my vital items, phone and money. I am stranded at the moment and may need a little help from you.
P E T E
Check out that weird spacing of his name at the end, too. Spam, right? Limassol Cyprus. It’s a big industrial port city on that woebegone often fought over Turk-Greek island that Othello was all about and off to defend or conquer, can’t remember, if it hadn’t been for certain lady problems and coconspirators. I did my faithful reading up (we always say to students, oh frown and scorn, do not use Wikipedia!!! And then we all turn around and rush home or even just look it up on the train when we can get whatever connection possible underground. Wikipedia is both glue and engine of world knowledge, gummed up and humming.)
Anyway, here is:
Limassol exports grapes, wines, carobs, citrus fruits and imports cereals, vehicles, machines, textiles, agricultural medicines, fertilizers, iron etc. All are exported and imported through these ports.
So that’s what’s doing in Limassol and I guess this friend of mine, lone matchmaker of said ex once fiancé, is out swabbing the planks with cereals and vehicles. Who knows. I am looking everywhere for some kind of insight, not even a “sign” just a thing. There’s a difference, somewhere, but instead it’s like—here are fertilizers. And iron.
Well. Those things are valuable too and pretty much do sum up how I am feeling: like shit that is forced to be strong. It’s disgusting. A one way ticket to Limassol is what I need. Shore up the iron ore market straight away.
Instead, still, really, it’s just email and scanning and looking and not knowing but that is the scope and measure of heartbreak, is it not? Let us know it for what it is, to see clearly, to look directly at.
Students! Hear me! Do not end sentences with prepositions!! No!!!!! Do Not!!!!