With no right to complain, I yet mewl and fuss.
I am sore put out.
Worst is, I’ve got nary to blame excepting myself.
I should kick my own ass, is what.
Last week in a nearby town we had a cop shot by another cop, they was trying to arrest him for banging an underage police explorer. I’m in two trials with completely unexplainable homicides where there is only going to be either a bad ending or a worse one. I read some shit in the LA times about a teacher tying up kids and putting roaches on them before making them do something so depraved and sickening that I won’t say what, and this was while the kids were in school. All around me these close friends are losing their twenty year marriages to infidelity.
And all I really give a shit about is my own unhappiness.
Do you sometimes wish you could just shed your whole being like the dead skin of a snake?
Well, who doesn’t wish that from time to time?
This seems to help some, though. I love me some Cormac McCarthy. And I like that biblioklept blog some, too. You might check it out if you’ve a mind to.
In honor of my bad mood, here is some Gilbert for you. Although it is really just for me.
The fish are dreadful. They are brought up
the mountain in the dawn most days, beautiful
and alien and cold from night under the sea,
the grand rooms fading from their flat eyes.
Soft machinery of the dark, the man thinks,
washing them. “What can you know of my machinery!”
demands the Lord. Sure, the man says quietly
and cuts into them, laying back the dozen struts,
getting to the muck of something terrible.
The Lord insists: “You are the one who chooses
to live this way. I build cities where things
are human. I make Tuscany and you go to live
with rock and silence.” The man washes away
the blood and arranges the fish on a big plate.
Starts the onions in the hot olive oil and puts
in peppers. “You have lived all year without women.”
He takes out everything and puts in the fish.
“No one knows where you are. People forget you.
You are vain and stubborn.” The man slices
tomatoes and lemons. Takes out the fish
and scrambles eggs. I am not stubborn, he thinks,
laying all of it on the table in the courtyard
full of early sun, shadows of swallows flying
on the food. Not stubborn, just greedy.