Monday, January 09, 2006

Yesterday, today and tomorrow

Classes resume tomorrow. Noon sharp. I dont know how I am going to drag my ass out of bed. Much less show up on a campus swollen with undecided and feeble students, feeling for the direction of the wind. I need a parking spot gottamnit.

I spent the day legs tangled with my girlfriend reclining on the couch. Tofu pate and hot tea, cartoons and long silences. The goodness of life is so good, so good a respite from anxiety and consumption. Sunday afternoons used to depress me. Maybe they would still, but if there was ever a time for meditative alonelessness it is not on a Sunday afternoon. Discipline, perspiration and aspiration another day. Sunday, I am the luckiest girl. Ever.

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(very much later)

ON THE SMALLNESS OF MY LIFE

You must concentrate upon and consecrate yourself wholly to each day night, as though a fire were raging in your hair -Taisen Deshimaru

Later we watched Grizzly Man. Definitely troubled, definitely suicidal this man projecting his emotional utopia with starving need, but touching still. I wonder to myself as he speaks prophetic on death... (his own)

on the bottom of the screen the subtitle reads A FEW HOURS BEFORE HIS DEATH. He turns. The subtitle BEHIND HIM, THE PLACE OF HIS DEATH...

I wonder to myself how I could die doing what I loved best, loose a clot of thought, maybe the sentence itself keels me over, maybe I die writing the words that finally and divinely communicate. Maybe the weight of my thesaurus hurls me over a cliff. I am not very glamorous. A tower of unfinished books and trailing philodendron vines, my death trap.

*oblique gaze. zazen. fruitful.*

(and think) I am enchanted by my frogs, Muriel and Seymour. They are extraordinary and mezmerizing. They are African Dwarf Frogs, very active and fully aquatic. They are no bigger than a quarter, if they sat on their legs, but they sprawl and float, then swim like mad. Maybe I will be one of those crazy old cat ladies but with a house full of frogs, rich frogs, trust fund frogs, supported by the wealth of my stuffed mattress upon my demise. (Oh how far a Thank You card goes.)

My mother extolled the virtues of the Thank You card as the golden ticket into the FINAL WILL AND TESTAMENT, those crazy North Dakota settlers. Norwegians don't die easy. They were like, 98. All of them. And in the end I can hardly stand the hospitality of a handshake without sending a Thank You card. Childhood scars.

But I am lifted up and not dark, though all the talk of death. Perhaps I am in a last minute panic to write before the school bell rings. Only 12 credits...

It is 2am and this is always my finest hour.

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