I finished the Harry Potter series on Saturday, and felt the loss at the end of the story, no more. I got cranky and unmotivated, hard to be around. I started getting obsessed with death themes. I had a dream about making a mocha: I saw the milk in the foaming pitcher, asked the customer if they wanted it dry or wet, added the milk and watched it rise to the rim. I put whipped cream on top and it spilled over the edges, then I realized a cat was inside the cup, poking its head up. The last image was the cat’s head in the hand of the customer like a furry apple, blinking back, separated from the body.
That’s how the week started, with insomnia and the headless cat in a mocha. Dawn says that dreams are a way to rid the body of toxins, there’s actually been correlations made between mental illness and sleep deprivation. I like the dark. I like death themes. And we’ve been socked in with fog for a week, in Seattle. The atmosphere sucks the moisture out of the ground, so it feels like it’s raining upside down.
We are all tilting downwards now, on this side of the planet, in this hemisphere: all those who are entering the darkness of winter are starting to lean sideways.
We string it together with holidays to make it go faster, at least. I realized on Monday I was 10% done with the week at noon, and 20% by the end of the day. That lifted my spirits: it’s not so bad! It goes by so quickly though, and the weekends always do…so then it’s clear, that’s your whole life. Better like what you do.
Dawn tells the kids they really only need two good friends. I say that’s good, in case one dies you’ve got a back-up. The same holds for blogging, here. There are some great people who keep me going, and it’s a real joy to hear from them. I pretend I’m in a prison cell of my own construction and the posts are scratches on the wall marking time, spoonfuls of dirt making a tunnel. Some day I might try to sound the way I used to, once I get out.
(Title source from Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut, 1969.)