I'd like to get up every day at 10. That's a goal I'll really have to concentrate on.
Don't envy me; free time doesn't mean much if you feel trapped within it. I don't feel that way, exactly, but I don't not feel that way either.
Lately, I've been sleeping late (Easter break late; second week of the divorce late). Time to stop that, probably. It's true that I thrive at night, like the titmouse or the python, but I need some structure. These are wild animals, after all.
The day just feels too distant when sleep goes this long. Reality is just too seperate for a sober mind when sleep goes this late. Also, there's something else to it: You start to feel at odds with the day (that is, daytime), like you're rebelling against it. And I'm not sure I want to do that, at least not yet. Sleeping this late every day is kinda like wearing jogging pants to a wine & cheese.
Besides, it's not like I'm on the night shift. I'm not some goddamned security guard, too moral for his own good.
It's nice to remind myself that I haven't had any major head injuries yet. It's nice to reflect sometimes.
I keep telling myself that I have all of these original thoughts of mine, clogging up my airways, but then I spot the loud Asian fellow on the phone near the window and I notice the massive scar running down the side of his skull and face.
Whatever. I wish I'd stolen this granola bar instead of paying for it.
So, Peter and I are going to Chicargo. I should mention it before I myself kinda forget.
It's a tad surreal.
We went to Chircargo in 2013 for Lollapalooza as a way for everyone to get to know my future fiance (and as a means of seeing The Postal Service, of course).
This time it's two men and a baby and a pill bottle of Sarah's ashes to spread around. I think that's why we're going.
I can't help but wonder what she'd think of this. I imagine that she would tell us not to bother, and if we told her we were going to bother anyway, I think she'd tell us to spread them near some place that served food she liked. "Spread them near the place where I got that veggie burrito" sounds plausible. She didn't eat any veggie burritos down there that I can remember, but that's hardly worth mentioning.
I still try hard to place her before me; to make her real.
I try to recall conversations we've had and that's already impossible, so instead I just try to physically put her in the room as I write or bathe, and try my best to make-believe. I used to be great at it when I was a kid and none of this was relevant. Sometimes it works.
Perhaps I'll be able to conjure her in Chicargo, sipping a beer and looking distracted because she's as bored as I am.
That's really what we thrived on; cynicism and sheer boredom.
I was always great at pinpointing when she didn't want to be in a social situation she was in. Once she got a mother-in-law this became even easier, but I had the inherent ability from our earliest days. I can still spot it in pictures.
We're taking Grant with us just to make sure that neither of us get drunk or have sex with a woman.
I asked Peter why/how he chose Grant for the trip. The inquirey was eating at me for days beforehand. I mean, they're both under three, but there is two of them. They're both equally entitled while being completely unaware of what they're going to experience, so how do you choose? Eenie meanie miney--how in the fuck do you spell this? Eenie meanie minie moe. There.
We're taking Grant because he's named after Grant Park, where Lollapalooza is held, which I already knew.
Makes sense as much as this could ever make sense.
I see my bereavement councellor tomorrow. Yeah, I'm still going to him. I think a physical attraction is finally beginning to manifest there.
He works, though I'm not sure that he 'heals' much of anything, really. Who heals someone in a situation like this? That's why humanity allowed whiskey to continue; for its healing properties. Not that I've ever been one to hold my medicines.
I like the guy because he listens when I talk, and he remembers everything. He reminds me of shit that I've forgotten myself, and he writes nothing down. Of course this is going to impress me. Also, he seems intrigued by me and that's the only reason I ever wanted to go to a therapist of some kind; to intrigue them.
Sometimes he provides an insight that I kinda like. Sometimes he provides an insight that I know she would like. He described me as somewhat of a mourning gay widow, and that really hit a nail for me (us). That's likely the only thing I'll ever share that he has said.
Most of it I can't recall by the time I'm scheduling my next appointment.
She hated The Postal Service, by the way.
But what did she know?
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