elephant man

either i’m growing a second head or an alien “chestburster” is about to explode from my lower jaw.

more precisely i apparently have an inflamed sub-mantle node. whatever. it hurts. and it looks gross (think big lumpy thing hanging under chin). and i cut it while shaving this morning.

just thought i’d share…

oh, and we’re off for a flying visit to Melbourne this weekend for Sol and Liz’s wedding.

2005 and a return to Adelaide

yes, but only for as long as this malaise is present. Will be back up at the dreaded dam in the desert tomorrow night more than likely.

I think M wants me to review 2005, pretending that he can”t remember anything.

2005 – extreme highs, extreme lows. A year of an inordinate number of health issues for us and our extended families. Of excitement, anticipation, of grief and sorrow I have never known before, of shame and failure, rejection, and of love, friendship, companionship and bonding, of frustration and elation upon success and of total meltdown at times.

Why is it that when you fear the worst and it happens, that in all other anticipatory endevours you can only see the forest that you have to navigate before the view that reveals half the world snaps accross your life like a shutter on your personal lens. I’m waiting for my fourth cylinder to start working… the numb bit to get some bloodflow… the bit of the brain that makes all things impossible to pack up and go home with its tool kit, take its little panel van of depression and lose itself in the bush.

weapon of choice

can’t sleep.

J is off in the desert and the bed is way too empty without her presence.

i want to play SWANS records at extreme volume.

“then we’ll know, then we’ll breathe”

productivity

(earlier today at work)

there are two computers on my desk.

i am using them to watch the clock.

the guy at the next desk over may actually be doing some work. i can’t really tell from here. i’m waiting for summer to arrive and have a slight undercurrent draw for a cold beer and intense blue skies but i’m sitting here watching the clock on my two computers.

i think of Barry Gifford’s story about the time he met the lectress at the cuban cigar factory. how her job is to read books to the workers each day. their quick brown fingers rolling leaves and paper rhythmically. and her voice from the chair perched above them.

and i’m sitting here watching the clock.

a book and a cold beer and a few gentle hours to myself.

but i’m sitting here watching the clock.