Plathological

regulation

Is there a narrative to all this? Stood on the dusty curve of the sidelines and saw the last baby goat stampede of the season--come on babies!! (seriously. I would be lying if I said I wasn't terrified of them crashing through my locked knees). Squeezed pâté onto crackers by the sundial. A weekend of picnics, two boxes of red wine, the hard heart of pumpernickel. In the middle of the wine, wandered into a parking lot and found a new pair of these owl keds in a box that also had a few too many bras in it (uhh . . ."tee-hee cute shoes . .teeee heee"?):

Suspicious—abandonment--somewhere out there a barefoot, barechested woman roams from midnight to midnight? and yet, they’ve grown on me. That’s two posts in a row overpowered with mentions of clothes. It's like the universe wants me to have a new wardrobe--God, are you displeased with my look? Is it not made in your image? School starts tomorrow, and Gaia is taking me shopping for the season. You know what I need to do? You know what I need to do because it's this oppressive albatross on my neck that I am now more than often convinced is the dark source and wellspring from which any or all of my depression and frustration may originate from? A simple yet massive task: organize my writing. Right now it's stacked in box after box in a separate closet and that fact has been squeezing the blood from my heels for weeks now and yet I've been putting it off not only because all the heaving piles of paper are of great weight but because the task is . . .psychically disturbing. Meaning: check your ego at the door and don't be overwhelmed. Don't stop to re-read and edit, just make piles, look later. Though I think I've come to realize that not doing the deed is even worse for the psyche--so there we have it. We know what must be done so I start feeling a bit more like a breathing person again. Oh lord. This is why people have filing systems, in and out boxes, secretaries: peace of mind, more money for infrastructure.