Manic Episode

Different angle to the morning light and I see I really need to do some house cleaning, break out the shop-vac, large espresso. Crazy man on a caffeine high, vacuuming in his underwear. Then a sheep watering-trough bath, then a huge bacon, potato, eggs and toast brunch. Feeling nearly normal, I almost wish I had a Sunday paper, reread some Guy Davenport stories, "Eclogues", then doodle for a couple of hours, spatial configurations for the Wrack Show. Need to work outside part of the day tomorrow, as the brush is infringing, but not too much, as a very busy week ahead at the museum: it's all about balance. I lived with a dancer, once, who practiced a kind of Tai Chi stretching routine, a part of which had her standing on one foot, very like a flamingo, and the difference between her and the rest of us, was that she was rock solid in that position, not a quiver, still as a statue. Loading, and muscle control. Shooting is a good test, but I don't want to hear the report. I have a compound bow and some target tips, some dense foam off-cuts, so I make a gallery, mount a New Yorker cover that features George W, pace off fifty feet; I take my time, control my breathing, I've never shot competition, never wanted to, I'm not competitive, but my first shot is center-of-mass. He's a dead man. I'm pleased with myself, and lucky. And I am lucky, any gambler will tell you luck is very real, the breath of the gods; I'm still alive, that should tell you something, the things I've ingested, the things I've done. A slow starter, maybe, because I didn't die at 28, which is when most icons fall, I was just getting my chops, for christ's sake, didn't have the money for uncut drugs or whatever else, I was drinking cheap ale and smoking home-grown bud. Maybe I missed the point, but I was still alive. Survival is everything. Darwin was correct. Or Wallace.