analytical

Fuckin' 'ell it's been a long time since I've done this.  Also, I'd like to add for the record that I loathe blogger's wysywig interface. Give my monospace fonts, any day.  I assume at this point I truly am writing for myself, and those few of you out there who use RSS readers rather than actually clicking refresh.

So, I and I have the stage, the Cranes being gothically dismal in the background, the white wine a bit chilly and bright for my taste, but certainly serving the purpose of modestly numbing, well, anything.  Although my excessive drinking habit has been such that numbing takes more work than it used to, alas and fricking alack.  

Did I ever do this without agonizing self-awareness? Without an arch meta-voice? Probably not.  A bit of a quasi crisis over the last few weeks, lack of productivity, lack of goals, lack of ambitions, lack of progress.  All, it must be said, greatly eased in a life of not-aloneness, but pointed enough to rear their heads through the otherwise pleasant surface of my life. It's amazing what I can find to beat myself up with - not reading poetry, wasting my time reading poetry rather than X; reading children's books for spiritual solace, being morally and spiritually corrupt and lamenting the loss of innocence since the last time I read a book; not getting writing done, questioning my ability to write or think at all.  A familiar tale, all in all, though it is harder to generate my narrative of isolate "pity me" drama when, on the whole, and certainly in comparison to some of the TPT archives I browsed through this evening, shit's going pretty well.  Did I mention the crisis? There's a crisis.  Or, a speed bump, at least. Definitely a speed bump.  A critical, crucial, absolutely insanely important speed bump.  I think that's what that was.  Fucking Rainman in my own life.  I may try and re-get in the habit of this. If a life unexamined isn't worth living, and a life hyper-over-examined became unbearable, might there be some middle ground?  Not my strong suit, admittedly, although 10 weeks of not smoking (except perhaps 5 cigarettes), and having commenced running (!) a few times a week. Mostly because I've put on a bit of weight and have the profoundest of fear, looking at myself in a mirror, that I'm going to become (physically) my father.  I'll do anything, including the indignity of dressing up in silly exercise clothes and panting and sweating my way down the sidewalk in the morning, not to become my father.  Anyhow, same bat channel, etc.