And on the back of his head: Got-R-Did. It's the ultimate distillation of life's to-do list — set 'em up and knock 'em down. Done and done or, if you prefer the redneck language version, dun and did.
No matter the dialect, the list is a bastard because it's so blunt. We are born, we do shit, we did shit, we die. Doesn't mean we necessarily like the shit we do — life's to-do list doesn't diddle with such details. If we like what we're doing (or what we've done), then bully for us, old sport. But that's small-bore stuff, like putting a lot of emphasis on the dessert tray at a sushi joint. Maybe there's a green tea or tomato ice cream that's pretty good, but come on, cut the crap, it's all about the sushi. Fuck the dessert tray. Plow through the sushi. Quit bitching about the uni — yes, it's sea urchin balls. Eat it. Do it. Consider it done.
Maybe it'll cause the gorge to rise; maybe there will be the inclination to throw it all up. Grab hold and tough it out. I feel myself growing stronger with each new day — not because things are going swimmingly and I'm ready to jump with joy, but because the only other choice is to give up. I can't do that yet. The silence of the muse has once more created a curious song inside me — this one in a minor key, with a few surprising chord changes. It's music for the new era.
No one's going to dance to it. A solitary life is not prone to fits of foot-tapping glee. Nights are silent and sleep comes in small snippets, if at all. Last night I drifted off around 2 a.m. and awoke to find my tongue and lower lip in pain. A small part of my heart was at peace, however, because the dream was sweet. It was only a vivid dream but I can use it to write the song.
I got up, showered, powered through work. Landed the plane on time and walked away without any casualties. Even the undone can get it done.