rejectomorph (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rejectomorph) wrote2023-04-30 06:36 am
rejectomorph) wrote2023-04-30 06:36 am
Reset Forty-Eight, Day Sixty-Six
Saturday was another sleeping day, with multiple naps and unfocused periods of waking, the last nap ending sometime after ten o'clock in the evening. Then I got focused enough to fix a sandwich for dinner, and then I got started on the task of shopping online for lighting. That took forever, and reinforced my belief that I am deeply un-American, being a hater of that most characteristic American activity. Shopping makes me anxious, fretful, sad, and distraught. Intermittently it even makes me angry. This apple has fallen so far from the tree that I can't even see the forest. There's just a distant, threatening haze that arouses nothing but a sense of foreboding. If there is a hell, and it is customized for each individual, mine will be a mall. Or a web site.
But I did at last get the job done, and have ordered not only the two lamps (a torchier with reading lamp attachment and a bedside table lamp with USB port) but a roasting pan. I dithered over the pan (which caught my eye on a tricky page the site put up because it knows more about me than I know about myself) as I almost never roast anything, and I'm not sure that my tiny kitchen even has a decent place to store this monstrous object I'll almost neve ruse. But I wanted to use up the entire value of the gift card, and I couldn't decide on anything else I found on the site. It's probably a good thing I didn't buy more gift cards after all. I'd have a nervous breakdown for sure.
Anyway, stuff will begin arriving next Wednesday, and the last item (the pan) will probably show up about a week into May. I'll probably use it about November. Hell, I'll probably die before I ever use it. Maybe I can be cremated and they can store my ashes in it. Cheaper than any damned coffin.
Sunday Verse
by Dean Young
It is said a hole knocked in the ceiling
of the flat Caravaggio fled, skipping rent,
explains the light source of those later works.
The problem for the authorities, a lot
of pissed-off swordsmen, was catching him
and we can only guess someone finally did
as his body was never found. Constant
in this world are the problems of landlords
and lighting and the sense of something out
to get you. I tried to solve the death-rattle-
in-the-middle-of-the-night problem by draining
the radiators, the encroaching-shadows-
every-moment-your-last predicament by reaching
way out the window and sawing off the spooky
scratching branch. Because of what I read
about consciousness and death, I did not
intervene but watched the broken bird grind
its eye in the sidewalk then I turned
away, un-mercy killing. I tried to solve
the why-am-I-so-dumb problem by reading books
I couldn’t understand. How about just leaving
it all alone, not getting out of bed,
the problem itself perplexed by a plethora
of variables: tax bracket, traffic pattern,
therapeutic workshop. Exhausting failure,
waste of raw materials, disastrous dis-
proportion like forever adolescence. Just
lying in the innocent-seeming gloxinias,
you can’t go forward and you can’t go back
and staying still ain’t an option. Perhaps
it’s best to embrace a what-the-heck philosophy.
Put some words into the word balloon, hardly
matters what as the cartoon concerns a conversation
between a trashcan and a duck. It’s spring
in another week. You’re not so awfully off
after all. The heart is drawn from its yellow tub
still beating.
But I did at last get the job done, and have ordered not only the two lamps (a torchier with reading lamp attachment and a bedside table lamp with USB port) but a roasting pan. I dithered over the pan (which caught my eye on a tricky page the site put up because it knows more about me than I know about myself) as I almost never roast anything, and I'm not sure that my tiny kitchen even has a decent place to store this monstrous object I'll almost neve ruse. But I wanted to use up the entire value of the gift card, and I couldn't decide on anything else I found on the site. It's probably a good thing I didn't buy more gift cards after all. I'd have a nervous breakdown for sure.
Anyway, stuff will begin arriving next Wednesday, and the last item (the pan) will probably show up about a week into May. I'll probably use it about November. Hell, I'll probably die before I ever use it. Maybe I can be cremated and they can store my ashes in it. Cheaper than any damned coffin.
Sunday Verse
Mannerist
by Dean Young
It is said a hole knocked in the ceiling
of the flat Caravaggio fled, skipping rent,
explains the light source of those later works.
The problem for the authorities, a lot
of pissed-off swordsmen, was catching him
and we can only guess someone finally did
as his body was never found. Constant
in this world are the problems of landlords
and lighting and the sense of something out
to get you. I tried to solve the death-rattle-
in-the-middle-of-the-night problem by draining
the radiators, the encroaching-shadows-
every-moment-your-last predicament by reaching
way out the window and sawing off the spooky
scratching branch. Because of what I read
about consciousness and death, I did not
intervene but watched the broken bird grind
its eye in the sidewalk then I turned
away, un-mercy killing. I tried to solve
the why-am-I-so-dumb problem by reading books
I couldn’t understand. How about just leaving
it all alone, not getting out of bed,
the problem itself perplexed by a plethora
of variables: tax bracket, traffic pattern,
therapeutic workshop. Exhausting failure,
waste of raw materials, disastrous dis-
proportion like forever adolescence. Just
lying in the innocent-seeming gloxinias,
you can’t go forward and you can’t go back
and staying still ain’t an option. Perhaps
it’s best to embrace a what-the-heck philosophy.
Put some words into the word balloon, hardly
matters what as the cartoon concerns a conversation
between a trashcan and a duck. It’s spring
in another week. You’re not so awfully off
after all. The heart is drawn from its yellow tub
still beating.