Friday, July 05, 2013


One foot on a banana peel, the other perched on the edge of an abyss — life isn't real until the body is pushed to its theoretical limits, then nudged a bit more into the place of visual and aural hallucinations, the space where still photos on a smartphone look impressive for their imaginary Ken Burns effect.

It is Friday. I have been up since early Thursday, and despite its lack of movies (God, I miss movie night), tonight will probably be sleepless. Malibu is back from her visit to the homeland and there is much to discuss. Two nights without sleep won't be much of a stretch — things only start to get interesting after four or five days away from dreamland — but I'm feeling a little jagged this morning, my edges a bit splintered from a mental battering of my own making.

But I will not complain. I cannot complain. For starters, that would violate any number of Badass League bylaws, and without strict adherence to the rules of the club there would be anarchy. I'm all in favor of mindless mayhem, but only when I'm helping make it happen to others. Creating internal mayhem by complaining? That's a job for the Whiners Club, the archenemy of our little tribe.

Any cares or anxieties I feel inside stay there, as described in a Fourth of July haiku:

"You're so strong," she said.
Not really. I have just learned 
to hide agony.

Hiding agony is even easier when there's no one looking. Even though I didn't plan it this way, I love it when a plan comes together.

No comments: