Cussing about the finite

Thursdays turn my hair grey.

I am beginning to see a pattern. Thursdays basically are shit days. It's not just the big schlep to motherfucking Orange for violin, nor is it related to any particularity of the week - sick days or busy-ness or what have you. I think that Thursday is just simply the day when all my half-assed illusions of order and control break down, and also when the finite nature of human time, space, and capacity is shown in starkest light. Right? Best laid plans and all of that. Also, I think my demons are more prone to get out of the box at this time of the week. Maybe I haven't been paying enough attention to keeping the lid down on it.

Don't forget your demon box maintenance
So a body has two choices here -- succumb to the darkness, let the demons run free, give in and give up OR fight back, recalibrate the plan, accept limitations, put the damned demons back in the damned box, and keep going. (Ironic that I wrote that post on Jan 1, and here we are on Jan 31? I think not. I think demon wrangling probably needs to happen on a regular schedule, like taking out the trash.)

So, then. OK. There's always Friday.

PS Cussing is sometimes damned shiny.OK, it really wasn't that much cussing. 

Dinner: Remember when I seemed like a person who cooked? Yeah. Well, the person I am today had the babysitter heat up prefab frozen turkey and black bean chili and cook some rice.

Soundtrack: There was something funky playing on WCSB on the way home from work. The next time I DO cook dinner, I am going to take Nic's advice and do the James Brown.

Random thing: Speaking of limitations and the finite, have I mentioned how terribly, horribly old I am getting? And all my grey hairs? I know, I don't really have them many, and it's not so much that they bother me ... It's just, well, I use to have few just at my temples and now I keep finding them all over my head. It is alarming only so much as it is a reminder of my own finiteness. I don't intend to hide them. In fact ... when I'm an old woman, I will have a long mane of white hire, and I will smoke a pipe, play (slightly arthritic) boogie-woogie piano, and have two afghan hounds that I walk regularly, their long hair flowing in the breeze to match mine.

OK, I might have to delete the hounds part to keep my marriage intact, but otherwise, this is the plan.

I was also going to write about poetry down here, but I forgot that until now ... tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will write about how I have been thinking about poetry a lot.


  1. Thursdays ARE turds. And I think you should really consider the wolfhounds. I mean, why the fuck not? And also, you are beautiful, you crusty, aged creature.


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