Feeling a little paint-by-numbers this evening, unfilled, emptied out, white. You know: Mondays. Can you imagine, what if that's the fundamental interconnection of humanity? Mondays? Can look at somebody on the bus and both say, "Monday," at once, in unison, and it's not telepathic or anything. It's just Monday, stupid Monday. Stupid inexorable sadness of pencils.
This is Monday: the moon has not blown up yet. Stay tuned for updates.
This is Monday: senseless things happen, people hurt each other's feelings, it's far too easy to get rumbled over other people's issues, psychoses, and neurotic displays. Better to be one of those women, like in the museum, the Michelango. The coming-and-going. The waving, back and forth, of one's hand, as if to say: enh. This'll pass. Definite finite parameters of time involved in this case.
This is Monday: one wishes one could bring a parasol to work with one.
This is Monday: there are too many colons, and I need a colonic.
Comments (2)
i miss the monday night writing thing.
Posted by joy | October 3, 2006 9:20 PM
Posted on October 3, 2006 21:20
I drink neat gin-tonics from the Writing Night Cups and it soothes the ache, a little bit, occasionally. Then I sob for hours while holding a candle representing my Artistic Ability, or my Ennui, or my Sanity. One of those. It usually burns out and then I'm left alone in the dark and I knock over the gin-tonic and it soaks a Superman comic book, which is painful in its symbolism vis-a-vis misspent childhoods, growing up too fast, and my barren man-womb.
Posted by ben | October 3, 2006 11:11 PM
Posted on October 3, 2006 23:11