I’m feeling particularly bipolar, just thought you should know.
Today, I subsist on the upward swell of a wayward zephyr – with spring poking its salty nose out, sniffing the air like a groundhog, deciding whether it’ll grant me my yenned renaissance.
Yesterday, winter was in full force, wedging my emotional undies right up into the butt crack of au fait accompli. Confused? So was I, dear friends. So was I.
What can I tell you? I am simultaneously devoid of art and yet feel an intense need to create. To be recreated. To stop the endless cycle that is the laundry of my dirty psyche. I could mark this spot where I stand in defeat and exhaustion as if it were new, but I been here many times before. Each time, I stuck stick in that wheel like a grubby kid, determined to trip the cycle … only for it to reinvent itself rather than me. Alas in augura, amici.
I want to fuck that cycle right up. Take it out back and beat the crap out of it. To release the guns, Tito and Sally Field upon it. I wanna moontag that puppy in front of its girl crush and rub its spokes in the dirt. Kick it and shout, you’ll never be a BMX!
The crux is work, as per. The foundations I rest upon are being eroded like a sandcastle built at high tide. It’s as if someone cast a handful of spaghetti high into the air and I can only watch as the once-unified mass splits apart in slow-mo, scattering in separate directions, before plummeting down, down. Dust. Yes, along with my working brethren, I am the pitiful pasta in this scenario; though I can’t decide if my boss is the hand that tossed it or merely the hand in absentia, which could’ve outstretched ‘n’ snared us. But instead, let us fall.
Details will be forthcoming when I can rest them from my mind box, where they lie entangled in vine and whine. Until then, I look to the groundhog, wood chuck-chuckers. For whilst he’s an ugly little mother who drives angry, he holds spring in the palm of his claw. And if I can’t rest my thoughts from me, I’ll surely rest possibility from he – imaginary little bedfellow.
And, now. To all the beady-eyed little man boys out there, this one’s for you.
If you’re tempted to rise above this movie, thwart the tempt. For you’d miss out on the genius of Goldblum and brilliance of Bateman. They make me happy in my finespun bone. Peptone.
“It was like a Tourette-style truth serum, and I was caught right in the cross hairs.”