rest
i have come to believe that being tired, underslept, allows for the natural sadness in me to flow, to roar,to drive me to contact former lovers and other wobegones out of loneliness for those interactions which bored me. is my physical strength (not that i have much) the only thing keeping my sadness at bay? the only force controlling the flow of irrational thoughts ? i think of incontinence. bowels relaxed, shit flowing, my emotional sphincter releasing torrid substances into the hot summer air. i woke up early, energized to take control of this single life, working to clear the phlegm that litters my unsatisfied guthold. as usual when i leap from bed on little sleep i quickly evaporated. i remember a silly made-for-tv in high school, which was the talk of the Theology classes for a few weeks, in which a high schooler commits suicide after a series of setbacks (which made most of us privileged types chortle and guffaw). i remember this-or-that about that film, but the scene i remember on days like today is the one where the mother of the kid who killed himself wakes up one day, rising from bed with refreshed optimism and some cheesy but effective music to accompany her rise from sleep to morning. as the music would have reached its climax the woman‘s face sours, the music fails to requiem, and the simple joy of waking up to face the day was swallowed by her immediate top-of-the-morning realization that her son had commit suicide. i think of that little vignette on days like this, when i wake up drainedand vacant for no possible reason. i liked waking up for most of last year with the smiling knowledge that i had a hottie, a nice, nice girl in my life who was ill at ease it when i called her hottie but she was my hottie. when that ended there was a brief spell of waking up to the sour dismay of that happiness gone. that happiness was sweet, though. might i be better for never having known it? here comes memory of richard nixon, of all people, his exit speech in which he said one must reach the most dismal valle
ys before they can appreciate the highest places. or, as i‘ve always said, one must fuck up a lot in life to get things right. without fucking up you are just a privileged mutant prodigy who does not value success.
i spent all day roaring through sql triumphs, rendering sublime command-line jujitsu that sliced and spliced incongruous data blobs into masterpieces. Masterpieces! i exaggerate but after not attempting much serious programming in about a year i remember how satisfying it is to get right the syntax and the semi-colons and the reverse-tick quote mark thingies, and then i stash it into an eternal crontab (1 * * * *) and get on with life‘s bad, bad self. i am getting too old for this stuff. i can hardly see the screen at times, but even were my eyesite pristine i would never pursue a life of slinging code into my 50s. i am a ways off from that decade threshold but age bias in the technology realm is presumed and i would hope never to rely on a livelihood where elders are dismissed by the mythical man month in favor of hypeful youth.
i eat sardines and i fucking hate it. those headless shits are nasty, any time i put one into my mouth i feel like it slithers down my throat, whacking its tail and stupidly writhing its headlessness into my immediate innards. i fucking hate sardines. i imagine them in swarms underneath the sea, ducking about, casting, looking ignorantly that way and then this, tools of the swarm. mindless stumps of life, travelling from the ocean into my mouth.
