Thursday, April 11, 2013


No time for sleep. The public file is due at the Paragraph Factory and one does not shrug off the FCC or a prime directive from the boss.

As I compiled and typed I thought about writing, and how hard it has been to do lately. I'm all molasses between the ears, sluggish and unable to really feel any of the words trickling down to my fingertips. Instead of feeling inspired by the Silence I am unnerved, uncertain.

I look at a lifetime spent writing and think tonight of the waste of time and paper. Because 11 months and six days after the stroke I am still not back to prime shape, still struggling to find the right words to describe the turmoil, the disconnect between what I'm feeling and my inability to make it make sense. In a word, I am undone.

I have deluded myself into almost believing I am fine, just fine, and not in a girl way but really alright, OK. When friends ask I hear my voice switch to rondavis mode and I feel the energy drain, I can almost see the internal gauge steadily sinking ever closer to Empty. Most troublesome is the mindset I have acquired, one that says it will be no big loss when the tank goes dry and the engine stops.

It would almost be a relief. No more waking up before the alarm to the sound of a voice I no longer know. No more dreams where I do something incredibly stupid, like sleep-dialing someone's number at 4:02 a.m. because I'm calling them in the dream I'm having. There are few things more off-putting in my current life than waking up and seeing what my dreaming mind is up to.

At night, before I sleep, I meditate and ask the universe to put an end to the silence, to please upright the overturned tables and make smooth the rumpled and soiled linens of life. I beg for a chance to restore some Right to a world gone Wrong. But the universe has gone silent, too, and in the quiet I hear my own voice from the past saying all the wrong things, all the stupid feelings, the smother of words that were supposed to make everything better but instead brought me to this place that is quiet like the tomb.

Funny, but I am also silent in my dreams. The chatterbox no longer speaks. What he has to say no longer interests anyone, not even the figments of me populating my dreams. Oh-so-bored and over it already: this reflects my current mindset. I couldn't care less what happens, only that it hurts as few people as possible and gives great joy to my sham friends. They, after all, deserve a consolation prize for having to put up with me for so long, pretending to be cool like Brando, banging on a typewriter while an equally hip kitty slouches nearby. The words have run away like the muse, and the cat is a rapidly dimming memory. This is the truth of my life right now. It will surely change. It has to.

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