Nothing Personal

Up all night and way too much to drink. Decided the mass of what I don't know is much greater than the mass of what I do know. I want in the Witness Protection Program. I make a point of not getting personal. You probably know I'm a Democrat and agnostic, I believe mold but rarely people. Goddamnit. I hadn't wanted to move again. I make some calls, what are friends for? I'd like to disappear, this cloak of skin is a hair shirt and uncomfortable. I don't know what I could do different. I knew there was a danger, aligning with a family, that I would expose myself. But I could do that, make myself vulnerable, as long as the connection was there, now I feel like a leech, with no warm body available. This is why weird dudes live in caves. This is it. I want to remove myself a step further. I wonder how to do that. I know it means complete detachment and that scares me. If I build another house, there will be a staircase that doesn't go anywhere. Maybe a door at the top, on a landing, that leads to a wall. Nothing there. Dark matter. For hours I consider response to stimuli. I can't even read, stare into the middle distance and cry. What might have been. Of course the world will go on, there's a huge momentum there, any suicide must recognize that there is another world out there, ice-storms and snow-burdened branches, but despite the body-blows, I'm fine. I don't know why, exactly. I look at some options and I'm amazed there are some. Thought I'd used everything up. I could still be a mason. I might take up quilting. And other things. I prefer the natural world, give me a mud-puddle and some frogs, I'm happy as a clam. Whatever that means. Can a clam be happy? Yes. Tuck it up. Consider the flowers. Safe to say I believe in nothing, but I had thought certain things inviolate. I was wrong, nothing unusual, actually, a pattern emerges, a failure to see what is happening. I could do a history of my failures here, consider it done, I'm a bad guy, and insensitive. Listen, I have to think about this, maybe I should move to Iowa or north Florida, I'm confused. I don't want to be here, in the face of it, I'd rather be anyplace else, I'm ill-prepared. And that's always the way, you're never prepared to deal with the actual issues, I'm not, none of us are. Shit happens. Wind storm, front moving in. Save this. Couldn't sleep after I Sent last night, started this very late. I won't go anywhere, of course, I love my job, I love the ridge. I am going to get a pistol, soon as I can afford it. The sense of violation is still strong. Seven robberies on the creek last year, knife point; I feel too exposed walking the driveway, that's where the creek mechanic, Dave, nearly got his throat cut, his driveway. And I'm not suicidal, don't have the sense to get depressed. One day/night in Utah I was depressed, I've written about it, like watching someone else, weird. An out of body experience, really, though or even if it was just a drug flashback; except for mystics (there are many roads here, they all lead) most folk don't seek out of body. What can I say, I was taking acid when it was legal. Don't do it much anymore, I ate some magic mushrooms I harvested from cow paddies in Florida, five years ago, they allowed me outside myself, but the thrill was gone. I can get there on my own. Writing you is a kind of fugue state at this point, a simple ritual, rub my fingers together and focus on the screen; the program, Mail Waiting To Be Sent, wraps the lines and when the screen is full, I scroll down, looking for open space. The best part of my day, that I pamper, that I hold dear, is writing you. I thought about that, last night: whatever happens, I'll keep doing this. Nine days from Sunday, I finally learned how to do something. Drainage update. The Scioto is still out of its banks, what we call local flooding, everyone knows where not to go. I walk some debris fields, just looking, take a great pink cute bear head, the only thing I allow myself to pick up, right back to the museum, and set it with the gar, on the desk, next to the corroded IBM Selectric. It looked good there, but I'll probably move it around. I had some time and no one was around, I took the plastic bear head around and talked in a squeaky voice, a meaningless monolog. Not Pinter, not even Shepard, a pale voice, but still germane. Maybe I'm just Miss-Remembering something, but I thought I meant something. Whatever, you and yours, we welcome you to our casino. There's a good chance you'll lose everything. If you're like me. A matter of course. Glenn mentioned periods, so I thought I'd throw in a few. The hard stop is different. Look at the way it makes you read, what I thought Glenn meant. This storm is sounding powerful. I'd better Send. Sorry we can't work through that thought, love to you. The roof of the woodshed is at risk. It's blowing a fucking gale.