May 4, 2012

• I know it’s heavy

  This week has made me feel very strange.  I don’t think it’s been a strange week. It’s the sort of feeling you would get looking at an enormous bed, the kind enclosed by draperies in an aristocratic bedroom, while the room is tranquil, sunlight filtering in through the window, the idea nudging you that there is some subtle story at work and one of the scenes is before you.

  I got a ticket for expired tags while I was at a parking meter.  I had been really excited that someone left 49 minutes on the meter, but I had forgotten about my tags.  Second year in a row that they got me.  Well, that I got me.

  I was coerced into volunteering a blood sample, for my mother.  I know, it’s weird.  I rolled out of bed and drove myself to the little waiting room where I signed in but there was no receptionist and no one took notice of me for some time.  I was still wearing my clothes from the night before, when I had gone to church.  When they called me back I gave them the order form, but the doctor – an older woman who seemed to have an eastern European accent of some kind, calling me ‘Mr. Pilip’ – asked for a photo ID.  I didn’t have one, I realized, but I still had my nametag on from church that said ‘Phil’.  I mentioned this but the doctor’s and her assistants’ only reply was to stare at me.  Thus I said ‘I’ll go look in my car’ but when I couldn’t find one the doctor said ‘Well, you have your nametag from church.’ 

  Tuesday night we discussed the existence of God at church and there was a girl named Rita who asked me why there are people with autism.  People with autism struggle with relationships, and if the purpose of life is relationship with God, how does that make sense? 

  Later that night my housemate Amanda and I walked in the rain down to the river, and when we got to the bridge a lightning bolt cut the sky in half.

  Wednesday morning I was running late for work and decided I was stupid enough to try to bike there as fast as I could.  A car was rolling through a stop sign at the intersection I was headed for, so I hit my breaks and catapulted off my bike onto the pavement in the middle of the intersection.  The guy got out and said sorry, but by that time I had already picked up my glasses and gotten back on my bike.  But it wasn’t enough: I was one minute late.

  In the comments section of the write-up I wrote ‘A wizard is never late. Nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to.’

  My hands and knees hurt all day.

  It was rainy on Monday, too: Alex and I lounged on Stephanie’s balcony and talked about Tender Is The Night.  Alex likes it for its breadth, while I like Gatsby because it’s conceptual rather than autobiographical.

  I have been in a daze from last weekend, when I slept tremendously to try to ward of the stress of everything.  I started talking differently too, I think.  I used to say too much, and there would be irresolution from how many things were said.  I’ve been more succinct, letting things be instead of becoming discursive.  There’s still irresolution because people have to read into what you say, and they’re usually a little off.  I suppose there’s always irresolution to conversation; how do find the perfect amount of words, just the thing to say?

  There always seems more and less to say. 

  It’s the month of May, and there is a lot that is going on.  Naps will be key.

  • 11:16 pm
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