Ink is all I’ve got and how it keeps running. It tells over and over the nature of ME and what I might want or who I might be. Like ME, it is fluid and pools sometimes, creating depth.
Every day it makes something different. In the course of twenty four hours I am “all in” with a particular “I” and every time in the interest of equilibrium. Funny, isn’t it. I think it’s a disorder. That in itself is one of my “I”s.
The last 10 weeks I have heroically kept my house clean, swiffered the hardwood, cloroxed the sinks and doorknobs, a maid serving myself, the hero who was serving the nation by staying in, going to bed early, meditating every day at 2 on the internet.
Now the Call to Inaction has been cancelled. There is no call. I have been let go, released back into the slosh of my pre-heroic life which required, as I remember, depression as the sub-text. I was depressed about not “doing anything.” If I didn’t brutally repress them, I would find a very specific set of feelings all leading to the same place which was a stadium with me in the center of the field and the loudspeaker saying “Do Something”.
For a brief few weeks I was relieved of that loud noise. In fact, doing nothing was required, even better, it was applauded. How lucky was that! How unforeseen that one could dilly and dally all one’s life and come near to the end of it having produced squat and been a schlub and then find a bit of peace in a sea of people all doing the same thing, which was nothing, for the good of the country.
