I woke up this morning and put jeans on, this is not normal as I usually wear slacks with a nice t-shirt but this morning I intended to do something like tend to the lawns growth. I started in on drinking coffee and thinking, plotting out my day and noting that instead of getting out of bed at a reasonable hour I chose to spoon with K for an extra few hours.
the coffee had expired while I was dressing so what I drink is fresher and more palatable. but unfortunately delayed.
Charles Mingus’ jazz symphony ‘epitaph’ plays over the afternoon. the afternoon which is supposed to be filled with thunderstorms and rain for the grass and other various plants. overcast but without notice from the heavens.
I want for the rain, I want for the phone to ring (though I despise talking on it), I want for something to happen that doesn’t involve what had already happened.
I’ll never get to the lawn today and will feel woefully under dressed for everything, not that I will be but that truth does not invalidate the former truth.
more coffee will have to be made and the day will progress regardless of my wants, desires and frustration at sleeping so long everyday these past several days. not sleeping well at night followed by sleeping all too well during the day – one aggravates the other I know and both are caused by the withdrawal from the medication.
no-one told me how long the withdrawal is going to last because the psychiatrist was upset that I cold turkey’d it and was concerned that I would not acquiesce to her, or rather defer my opinion to her professional opinion. Simply put it robbed me of the pure essence of life, rounding the edges and blunting the sword does not give me the highest opinion of life without the viewpoint of abnormal psychosis.
shit, I think I lost control of the post and am no longer aware of the plot.
have a poem…
my child
and you/ my child,/ who lay there sleeping,/ easily resting with lights still on/ who I dare not wake by moving// my beautiful child/ who soundly breathes/ heavy/ lying there next to me for comfort,/ I do not have the courage to move to out the light/ and hope your mother will chance by to snuff it that you may sleep still,/ dreaming what it is you dream and never remember.// always my playful, adored child/ somnolent in the house that surrounds/ and the father who fears to wake you/ accidentally.
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 