Christmas Void, Christmas Void / hiding by the tree. / Will you ever try to drop the Christmas tree on me OH / Christmas Void, Christmas Void / hiding by the tree. / Will you ever try to drop the Christmas tree on me. / Make the tree to shed / by using it to shred / It is not alive / but not exactly dead (a ZOMTREE) / Festive all our hearts / Seasonal our joy / Now that Tannenbaum is up the cat has got a toy! OH!
& repeat until people throw crackers.
The pain is gone, normal toilet functions have resumed, I can stand long enough to chop vegetables.
The actual line of poetry I woke up with in my head this morning was “All human history is a glory hole of mimesis” but where in Christ’s name do you go with that? So I wrote about consciousness instead, it was easier.
Absolutely must get to the lab today. Also need to go to the bank. And rehearse on various instruments. And deal with the element I dropped plastic on yesterday.
I am looking longingly at my writing projects but I’m going to continue to play computer games, doomscroll reddit and try to imagine a world without capitalism.
Life powers consciousness and unmakes it.
Here I am, sleeping again, but I don’t know that. An entire world crawls into my skull and spectates, and somehow that world is me. Unconscious for whatever registers dreams, I sleep with a heaviness that obliterates care and hangs a sheet over an ugly view. The drowned city dreamscapes of my childhood have given way to a glacial blue crevasse into which I fall each night; Del Toro and such? – these terrors cannot find me.
My griefs and wounds depart. I waken in a world where my eyes are so dry I’m momentarily disoriented, then I enact Warren Zevon’s plan and start to cry. My griefs and wounds settle back in my flesh. Break time is over.
How does it happen? To travel galaxies in flight and perspective, and never move; to be snoring for most of it.
The cat is sleeping on the couch. Ears flick, paws twitch. Someone’s in there, dreaming.
Here I am, on the phone with my mother. She is sad with the normal sets of woes plus the indignity of current ‘lurgy. My job is to cheer her up without making her laugh. She’s coughing as a new career. Laughter turns into a long stretch of wheezing irritated pain and a claim that this has gone on for too long. To maintain this conversation I am picturing my mother in her den, surrounded by books and papers; I am leaning my mind against hers through our voices. I was a dream she once had. She built a programmatic nest for me, with twigs from Pa, and now I am talking to the woman who taught me how to be conscious.