rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Reset Twenty-One, Day Fifteen

The hot, hot Saturday failed to kill me, but it's about to get help from a hot, hot Sunday which might. All the parts of the waking day I wasn't successfully distracted I was sad or anxious or both. I ought to have seen this coming, of course, as most of my early memories are of sadness and anxiety, and the rest are of the things that would successfully distract me from them. I'm old enough to know that being old brings back many of the things you thought you'd gotten over. My most effective distraction is still the one that worked best then, too: music. So I spent a lot of tie watching music videos on YouTube.

The electricity didn't go out, although a fire in Oregon is threatening the Pacific Intertie, a major part of the system that brings surplus hydropower from the pacific Northwest to California. It's one of three major high country fires burning from Washington to California. Lots of smaller fires are burning too. Thus far we still aren't getting smoke, but I'm sure that will change sooner or later. Later would be better. Much later.

Something something birds something something crickets... but I'm so exhausted that I can barely keep my eyes open. Also the bottoms of my feet hurt. What the hell is that about? I hardly even use them anymore, yet they get sore.




Sunday Verse



Praying Drunk


by Andrew Hudgins

Our Father who art in heaven, I am drunk.   
Again. Red wine. For which I offer thanks.   
I ought to start with praise, but praise   
comes hard to me. I stutter. Did I tell you   
about the woman whom I taught, in bed,   
this prayer? It starts with praise; the simple form   
keeps things in order. I hear from her sometimes.   
Do you? And after love, when I was hungry,   
I said, Make me something to eat. She yelled,   
Poof! You’re a casserole!—and laughed so hard   
she fell out of the bed. Take care of her.

Next, confession—the dreary part. At night   
deer drift from the dark woods and eat my garden.   
They’re like enormous rats on stilts except,   
of course, they’re beautiful. But why? What makes
them beautiful? I haven’t shot one yet.   
I might. When I was twelve, I’d ride my bike   
out to the dump and shoot the rats. It’s hard   
to kill your rats, our Father. You have to use   
a hollow point and hit them solidly.   
A leg is not enough. The rat won’t pause.   
Yeep! Yeep! it screams, and scrabbles, three-legged, back   
into the trash, and I would feel a little bad   
to kill something that wants to live   
more savagely than I do, even if   
it’s just a rat. My garden’s vanishing.   
Perhaps I’ll merely plant more beans, though that   
might mean more beautiful and hungry deer.   
Who knows?
                I’m sorry for the times I’ve driven   
home past a black, enormous, twilight ridge.
Crested with mist, it looked like a giant wave   
about to break and sweep across the valley,   
and in my loneliness and fear I’ve thought,   
O let it come and wash the whole world clean.
Forgive me. This is my favorite sin: despair—
whose love I celebrate with wine and prayer.

Our Father, thank you for all the birds and trees,   
that nature stuff. I’m grateful for good health,   
food, air, some laughs, and all the other things   
I’m grateful that I’ve never had to do   
without. I have confused myself. I’m glad   
there’s not a rattrap large enough for deer.   
While at the zoo last week, I sat and wept   
when I saw one elephant insert his trunk   
into another’s ass, pull out a lump,   
and whip it back and forth impatiently   
to free the goodies hidden in the lump.   
I could have let it mean most anything,   
but I was stunned again at just how little   
we ask for in our lives. Don’t look! Don’t look!
Two young nuns tried to herd their giggling   
schoolkids away. Line up, they called. Let’s go   
and watch the monkeys in the monkey house.
I laughed, and got a dirty look. Dear Lord,   
we lurch from metaphor to metaphor,   
which is—let it be so—a form of praying.

I’m usually asleep by now—the time   
for supplication. Requests. As if I’d stayed   
up late and called the radio and asked   
they play a sentimental song. Embarrassed.
I want a lot of money and a woman.   
And, also, I want vanishing cream. You know—   
a character like Popeye rubs it on   
and disappears. Although you see right through him,   
he’s there. He chuckles, stumbles into things,   
and smoke that’s clearly visible escapes   
from his invisible pipe. It makes me think,   
sometimes, of you. What makes me think of me   
is the poor jerk who wanders out on air   
and then looks down. Below his feet, he sees   
eternity, and suddenly his shoes   
no longer work on nothingness, and down   
he goes. As I fall past, remember me.

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