Love Note

I have notes on the behavior I have displayed in the last 3-4 days depending on how good my and your memory is.

First the trashcan that I completely destroyed this morning. It was a good trashcan, as good a trashcan as anything next to a desk is, good as the floor and much more tidy. And after I lost my keys again and my cell phone and pen spilled all over my white and quite expensive sheets again, I say the trashcan should have been safe. Trashcan that admits nothing and gives nothing up, a metal, and mind you expensive, trash can. I should not have kicked the trashcan, or when down, jumped on it until flattened in the middle like a sad and huge metal banana. Oh fuck it.

Second the crying as I am crying often, without any warning. Crying like I have valves and the work I do is a substance, something that is squeezing things through the valves. I think of this octopus whose skin is so netted with nerves, his brain can do little but the bidding of the surface. Such a large head to be constantly controlling to way something looks. It’s a shame to be floating like that, without the regular functions of a vertebrate, on the skin of your self. Which is exactly as I have experienced in all this crying: dearth of thought, alienation not only from the person I appear to be, but the person in command of that. What a liar they say, even though no one is saying anything underwater.

And on that note, the sleeping that has replaced what was on it’s way to regular behavior. The pitching of a baseball in your yard, bugs oh bugs so much so that you laughed and bought this spray, the evening tennis that is so nice and cheap because we steal everything. I am sleeping instead of touching you, afraid to watch movies in the theater, sleeping away what? The surround sound, the nights, your face when I wake you, the position of power I’m afraid I have. So sleeping it and pushing it into the dirt, cleaning the cat of its shit, seeing through the terrible dilemma of dentists, the pay period, the morning news and it’s like I lose a friend. The bell commemorative. The smallest one in the tower that I have not touched or seen, but paid for.

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