Here is what it's like. There is a task you tell yourself you can do. You need this, and that. And then you know you have this, but not sure you have that. Where is that? Is it a tool? Where are all your tools? You need to keep track. So you name them, even if you don't know what name to give them. And you picture where they are, right now, and how far they are from your bed. Can you walk there? You are so tired. And then you think maybe asking these questions will help you sleep. And then, suddenly, sleep is a tool. For one very specific job. That takes more than two people.
And here I am. I almost do things and then imagine hearing my footsteps. What if we're not creative at all, but instead share gut bacteria that lays our sentences over the wrong words? I can't possibly be a good father or a good husband or a good son. Not because I'm dying, but because I'm dying. I had no right
to ever
be dying. I have
I have that dream that I have that dream where I know I'm dead because I remember all my passwords. I am sick of needing art. In these times, they say, we need art. They are right and they are ill. And in trying to sleep and be sick and not die I am suddenly thinking of Nick Stahl in Eye of God which leads me to Kelli Garner in What Josiah Saw which lifts me to Martha Plimpton in Mass. And now I'm here again loving art with eyes that cannot witness and a death I mock with restlessness. And then I remember how I wrote out of the blue to so many about their art and how it brought me back to hiding in a cornfield from someone with a sore throat and christ how unfair
Blue
is to everyone.
kingsoftrain 