Carping at the day
After three days sick to death, I’ve forgotten how
to get out of bed. Instead, I daydream, fantasize, listen to the radio, read; I
belch, fart, drink the coffee the dog brought me, and consider not remembering –
the Proust fantasy without all the friends dropping by: I have no desire to “receive”;
I am completely happy with my imaginary playmates. But, I’ve promised to get to
work at least by this afternoon.
Eventually my bowels will force me out. Then, the day – as distinct from
the night before – will begin. “One at a time!”
Uncle Albert thinks that, “one day at a time,” is
a selfish philosophy. He may be right; it’s certainly not an expansive one.
Or,
it is. This day will come and go like many others in a jagged series of small,
restless movements, stuttering like a wind-up clock, quivering like a rabbit,
looking back over its shoulder at Easter, and ahead as far as it can sniff,
then lurching off sideways in a hop borrowed from the Ministry of Silly Walks.
04.07.16
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