monday: 11, new moon, first snow, interest waning as quickly as hope. this is a good thing; it's painless.
this is the suck, the stagnation. seems like nothing is going on but the same thing that happened yesterday. it's a bleak horizon, like when you discover that yr not really that special and the notion that Jesus loves you isn't very rewarding. it takes effort to keep it tasty; the spice of life doesn't always just fall into the pot, just as pot doesn't always fall into the bowl. we slather on lotion and positive thinking to get us through the winter. it worked last year, didn't it? a sappy letter from a friend that moved 1000 miles away reveals that she does what i do--cling to memory once the great artist Nostalgia has used memories as his canvas. "i COULD NOT stop thinking about you last night," she writes, and suddenly i'm on the other side of the mirror. maybe that's all i needed to stop thinking about the one i've been thinking about less and less and less. when there's nothing tangible, when there's no rock to cling to, all we have left to hold on to in emotions. the fickle little bastards wave and flicker, ebb and flow and no matter how hard you try, you just can't strangle them any more than you can use yr hand to throttle the neck of a flame. you put a leash on them and feel like a master until they break away, and then you feel like you've just lost yr dog, but really you've lost yr head because yr heart has run away.
this is the suck, the stagnation. seems like nothing is going on but the same thing that happened yesterday. it's a bleak horizon, like when you discover that yr not really that special and the notion that Jesus loves you isn't very rewarding. it takes effort to keep it tasty; the spice of life doesn't always just fall into the pot, just as pot doesn't always fall into the bowl. we slather on lotion and positive thinking to get us through the winter. it worked last year, didn't it? a sappy letter from a friend that moved 1000 miles away reveals that she does what i do--cling to memory once the great artist Nostalgia has used memories as his canvas. "i COULD NOT stop thinking about you last night," she writes, and suddenly i'm on the other side of the mirror. maybe that's all i needed to stop thinking about the one i've been thinking about less and less and less. when there's nothing tangible, when there's no rock to cling to, all we have left to hold on to in emotions. the fickle little bastards wave and flicker, ebb and flow and no matter how hard you try, you just can't strangle them any more than you can use yr hand to throttle the neck of a flame. you put a leash on them and feel like a master until they break away, and then you feel like you've just lost yr dog, but really you've lost yr head because yr heart has run away.