Prisoner or Poisoner, I don't know for sure which is more apt. Maybe Interloper? Shadow-Thief? Night-Knife?
I like Night-Knife, maybe, mostly - it sounds ridiculous and threatening, which are fitting adjectives.
Don't think I can't see your shoulders shaking in silent laughter, your mouth twisted upwards in derision. Yes, I look the fool, yes, my kingdom this Mazda Miata. Yes, a dog's shirt and woman's scarf are wrapped around my torso.
Or prey rather too wary, really, what with this ludicrous bell the prison guard has fasted onto my collar - just another in a series of torments.
I know, I sound down, don't I? Is it the holiday blues, you ask, or something rather more substantial?
Read on and I'll tell you, but my sadness today is due in no small part to just having finished Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, a lovely, but supremely sad, memoir. Well. I suppose there are fingernails of hope in there, but I'm struck by the father - blindsided even - and his eternal fall.
So you think this is the bottom but there is no bottom, there is only the fall, just as there is no destination, there is only the movement itself, the traveling in whatever direction one starts off in.
Falling further and further forward, tipping your chair in school, chided, continuing back, back, until you find a new fall, dizzy, bleary-eyed.
The shirt, the scarf - testament to my self-destruction, self-impairment, self-immolation, self self self careening forever forward, inwards, splitting into funhouse shapes of my body, my face, and chipping away at that reflection with all-that-is-within-me.
The wound, my friend, from posts ago, never allowed to heal because I cannot leave it alone.
The wound is okay. It's not infected. It's even healing. But I can't seem to leave it until I leave it shiny with blood.
I am a zephyr, belonging only to desultory whims which overtake me.
I am overwhelmed with them. Over-full of longing.
The all-everything-ness of our ties to each other, to ourselves. The interconnection which is as true as the wound on my side. And am I Jesus-like, here, suffering because I suffer, because I choose to, because this is my life, or am I a silly self-aggrandizing kitty cat who foolishly rolls around with a ball of yarn, kitten-forever, manic with my own agony-of-stupidity?
I breathe in and I am the universe. I breathe out and I am you. I breathe in and everything is possible. I breathe out and there is nothing. My life a series of moments strung haphazard along a clothesline.
Holiday blues? Prisonyard blues? Self-pity? It's the same. I am the wave crashing.
I am the shore.