walking to the killing

All told, I’ve lived in Michigan for about a year now.

Today, my wife asked me to walk her to work, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she wasn’t motivated by a desire to leave me alone in the house for as little time as possible. It takes a lot of mercy to endure my partnership, these days. Mercy and human kindness.

I am horrified that I radiate so much anguish and that i bear the sloppy, largely silent manner of someone who is winnowing away. Daily I observe, as even my memories winnow away from me.

After the walk, I took solace in my most beloved of contempo television, AMC’s The Killing.

Now I’m blogging at you, because blogging is back. On my walk I twice passed a dude who played jazz guitar atop a unicycle. It didn’t even evoke my usual, guttural contempt so much as remind me that I live every day like a statuette of a diver in somebody’s aquarium. I don’t blame God or drugs. I always blame myself, but I do it from enough diverse perspectives that the whole business still holds my interest.

Being depressed is not like listening exclusively to Grateful Dead bootlegs, despite a certain comparable monotony. It’s more like just winnowing-the-hell away. These days, just smelling something distinctive seems like sensory overload. Everything but crime genre and my merciful wife scares the shit out of me. I’ve fallen out of contact with many, many friends — even as they bend over backwards in attempts to reach out to me. Others have already written me off, be it angrily or despondently.

Moons and people wane. When does the waxing begin again? Will it be before or after the cold sesame noodles that I so stupidly over-salted?


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