simolinic

For weeks, more or less: Work from 9 to 5ish. Home by 5:45. Quick walk or run. Dinner. Web design project for a few hours. Miscellaneous design job for a few hours. Approximately one half hour allotted to Paranoia Agent. Read until unconscious.

My sentences are getting shorter. Efficiency.

Ruby on Rails. It’s a framework designed to simplify. And no doubt it is simpler than otherwise. Apparently, I am even simpler. No, that’s not right. Eventually, I will make it work. Repeatedly I am reminded that this is not the path for me, that it tweaks all the wrong nipples. That I could be drawn back repeatedly, but that I will be marked and left for dead.

Last night I, Zach, and Tony ventured out. We went to the Caledonia Lounge and imbibed The Shut-Ups. They are a good band who made me smile. The bands on either side of them made me concerned. Ever since I stopped playing in a band with semi-regular shows, attending live music performances produces in me a complex miasma of light and sound. That is, I feel pangs of loss and possibility and jealousy and relief. That’s very difficult to enjoy.

Then we had a meal at The Grill, where I’d never been. Cheeseburger + 3-Way-Splitshake + Two of my favorite friends = Bliss. God bliss them.

As we left, the crowd of drunk youths swirled around us. A young lady, gradually scooting her pants back up to her waist, admonished the populace, “Don’t look at my puss.” In the whining, half-conscious voice of demons.

Maromi: “take a rest! take a rest. take a rest! take a rest.”

And I’ve been pursuing “relaxation” in the form of seeking frantically a block of time to sit in darkness and silence and play Fallout 3. The mania of my recent daily schedule compounded by an increasing desperation to have “leisure time” in a classic form. Then today when I snagged about half an hour to play the game, I was frantic, tossed into the Wasteland without respite, unable to even find a bed to rest in. I was in another world, dodging bullets, seeking: rest.

Fuck that. Simulated survival tension isn’t as entertaining when I really am doing everything I can to survive in the ordained realm of rent+bills+food+you know it all already. I learned a long time ago about remaining calm and thoughtful. I have been neither calm nor thoughtful. I’ve been tense and hateful and vicious and shortsighted and unloving. And smiling.

And Jake’s new album is called “Anxiety.” And too many of his razor insights brush against my forearmhairs, send shoots striking up skinterrain. Bumps abruptly. A shiver. No, not down that path. Please.

I crave deep breaths, isolation, silence. Languid linguistic largesse. Nothing new. Nothing new.