The Same River.

In the last few days I’ve encountered a number of words that, while previously unknown to me, have come to define this week. Words like hemoptysis, friable, pulmonary lavage, and bronchoscopy.

While I’m glad the latter two exist, the whole ordeal from Elz suddenly coughing blood on the way to do some mundane provisioning to the four total hours of sleep I’ve had the past two nights to spending lunch and evenings in ICU with my poor lady who is just physically beat down, I could really do without encountering any of these words again. She’s slowly on the mend and might even make it home some time this weekend. As a favor to me, please hug and/or kiss [as appropriate] those around you who matter most.

As for me, well, the dogs need to go outside, some semblance of laundry needs to be done, and there’s a special lady who requires adult supervision.

Listening to M83′s Before the Dawn Heals Us and I am struck by the overpowering evocation of longing and despair the album has. Seriously. I’m sitting here at work and all I want to do is sigh and maybe let loose with inexplicable sobbing. Haven’t felt like this since my at-the-time spouse seemed to be purposefully incinerating our marriage and all I could do was watch. I want to say the music personifies reckless waste for the sake of dystopia. Not so much reckless I guess, because it’s as if there’s a compelling need to bring about destruction just for the sake of destroying something.

Celebrating entropy maybe…

I think this mood has been prevalent lately because the slow-mo incinerating marriage is also finally approaching its terminus. That, and the fan blades gained their fecal coating about this time of year two years ago. The judgment is final on the 9^th and this completes the cycle that began June 18th, 1993. From then on, she becomes no more than any other person I might run across on the street and I am protected from having to clean up anymore of the messes that have been spawned in the past two years. The dissolution has been exceptionally drawn out for reasons beyond my control and for the past two years it has been to my emotional well being what smog is to Los Angeles.

Oddly, we’ve been forced to correspond a bit over the past month and change because she insists on soaking up every last bit of support she technically has coming to her. I’ve changed jobs and this means a change in insurance and the like. So, anyway, a rash of email back and forth. I was somewhat struck by the apology she issued in her last communique but, ultimately, I’ve just got to file it away with everything else. Sometimes a wholesale paper shredding policy is best. At any rate, I have a great thing going with Elz and I’d have to say that I’m better off now than I have been in the past 20 some odd years.

Anyway, M83 reminds me a lot of Sigur Rós which, oddly enough, I listened the heck out of almost two years ago. Time to find me some juju right quick so I can reverse this emotional trainwreck. King Sunny Ade is completely antithetical to depression which is what is called for at the moment.

120 minutes left in what is the last vestige of my previous life. The doors close at 5:00 p.m. and I will walk out of them for the last time as an employee of this institution. I can’t say as I’m totally happy about the situation. I can say that it will be nice to not have to fight for every inch of a project’s development—if for no other reason that I’ll no longer be working on my project. There was a lot I had planned and to see it go unimplemented is sad. Could I have done a better job selling it? Would it have mattered?

Alas and alackady…

The boxes are packed, the good-byes said, there’s just 115 minutes left between me and the rest of my life.

Sleep.  Glorious sleep is merely an hour away.

I shall sleep the sleep of the narcoleptic gods.