There was an epiphany what sprung from between my anxiety-stiff shoulders in the pinkified bathwater last night, but it drowned with the eddies of cinammon swirling in the drain.
Today's sunshine seems to have brought a few smiles back into a few of the faces carrying so many demands in the office, and today I had time for lunch for the first time in a while.
Seared swordfish and the comforting company of Mr. Pyke and this afternoon is still difficult but so much less than the past ten days.
I don't want to go to Montreal this weekend. My mother wants me all to herself for her birthday, has placed as many demands on my head as my multitude of bosses.
So much demand, such a small monstre, with sore fell-down-the-stairs back and warbly vibrato.
But then, too much demand is a sign that I've done what I wanted, rather than hidden away and allowed the mundane values swarm me under.
Not that I'm anywhere near immune to them, as I surf the toyota and honda websites, trying to decide which brand new hybrid car I want.
Not that I'm anywhere nearly immune as we discuss replacing windows and refurnishing the extra room, as I consider custom clothing and go to the more expensive grocery stores because they save time, remembering each time the way someone once taught me that the store-brand saves you ten cents a can of corn, wondering if the lesson is useless now, or has taught me something I am not realizing the spiritual value of.
Yuppieville registered me as a voter while I wasn't looking, and yet the anger of a thousand raging hormones seems to have been left behind last decade.
I'm ten years ahead of where I should be, and every day someone reminds me that everything I do is ahead of my time.
Some days I bristle with pride, other days I wonder what I've lost in the margins.
Talk of families and friends and travel and words slip by here and there, between the racing evenings and drilling afternoons, and some of them are greater words than any I ever expected to hear, ever expected to have thrown in my direction.
Harranguing an artist after attending his montage at the german gallery, hearing voices consider my pointed words.
Today, a man took notes, writing down every word I spoke in his direction.
My words are not worth such attention.
What does that say about the words that I choose to write down, what does this say about the mundanity of the entire population?
I have escaped this mundanity for so many years, ensconced in my naivete, refusing to let go of the belief that there are great wonders exploding from great hands.
I am happier these days than I have ever been, and yet slowly I feel the last dregs of my fabricated innocence escaping into investment portfolios, mortgage theory, and underground parking.
And I wonder, where are all these screams that carried me through the most difficult moments, now that the pain is gone? Where is my poetry?