Fit To Be Tied As Extremities Forgive Ev'ry Non-Conforming Knot

15 Jan

joy-equation

Joy Is Not An Equation

samplex

Date: Sun Jan 15, 1995 7:12:08 PM America/New_York

Space, yeah, the weather and no frills government service contract this city has in place is enough to make me slide to the floor in embarrassment. much to my surprise, I have so much built-up resentment (I've found myself dumping five dollar bills on bums after pleading to them that I had nothing, or at least no change to give, and then despising myself for such ambivolent generosity) living in this part of the city I probably would only need a few days working as a postal clerk to find myself suddenly armed & gunning down a whole mess of innocent strugglers in some McDonald's or hellhole nearest to thee my God. Not really, it's just a metaphor for a strange feeling that I'm fit to be tied as my extremities forgive ev'ry non-conforming knot even as sheer will fails to extinguish some unexplainable need to do something I am told I cannot. And in this fashion I speak only in literary terms. Hence, the Poets.

The fact that I am occasionally shocked by a quick but impacting sentiment whispering to me that perhaps I should finally take my crazy mother's advice and seek some counseling—draws the thick solid line in the sand for me. Am I that near the jagged rock bottom when everybody else around me thinks I'm in total control of everything I touch, taste, and feel, and yet my own inner speech sounds like what you just read?
I'm not in good straits these days, but that sounds like a broken record (as my Dad used to say). I need a reality check. I need a change of environment. But I'm too weak, too old, too disapated from self-pity to initiate that change. Life with Sue is a pathetic crime against the nature of love. We are best friends. That is all. Nothing like a realization like that to split the brain not into left sphere, right sphere, but into the reptilian and deadening silence. Damn it. Life is pretty fucking good to me, man, yet I still yearn for more. I make myself miserable coveting what the world has to offer but that which also forever seems to elude me. Therapy is something I've always rejected as a costly and ineffective (for me) luxury of the pampered and the pathetic simply because I'm a competitive neurotic, a logosholic, a negationist.

Tell me I've got it all together, I set out to prove you wrong, and how pathetic I am, always hunting for that something vital I might have left out in my story, after all, everything is a story, isn't it? Tell me I need help, Doctor Mundane, and I set out to prove how hard and hustling are the muscled beasts I stride reins in grip ready to gallop to the very ends of this earth. Blame me, I either accept it reflect it. Neither position is worth the trouble, but blame nobody, and surely I will beg to differ, wanting to get at the bottom of what moved the mountain to Mohammed, and why in the world, why. But basically, I'm looking for passion in normalcy, or actually, normalcy in passion, or steadfastness, or surprise, or art and politics in every grain of sand, and those are things I've never been able to find for myself. I glimpse it in the lives of others, but not in mine, unless I manufacture it. And if I'm so great in manufacturing it, why aren't I being compensated for it? The fact that I am occasionally shocked by a quick but impacting sentiment whispering to me that perhaps I should finally take my crazy mother's advice and seek some counseling—draws the thick solid line in the sand for me. Am I that near the jagged rock bottom when everybody else around me thinks I'm in total control of everything I touch, taste, and feel, and yet my own inner speech sounds all too similiar to what you just read?

Twas a pity Green Bay couldn't slap down those Dallas showboats. I watched most of the first half. Guess your Steelers gave you a cheap thrill and you've got two more weeks to whoop it up. Didn't Irvin of Dallas used to play for Atlanta? As you know I only follow football and all sports rather superficially these days, but I enjoyed watching that half. Favre is quite the unsung wonderboy.

Don't remember whether I answered your query a few letters ago about that Dylan quote at the end of my postings. I need to change it I guess, but it's something my E-mail program automatically attaches, and is called a signature. Anyhows, I'm feeling a bit better now that I've aired my despair in yet another whining of the fats. Thanks Counselor.

Gabriel

© 1995 - 2013, Gabriel Thy. All rights reserved.

Tags: , , , , , ,

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


Top

Login