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Coffee. Drink. Repeat. March 25, 2012

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, The Narrative, Toulouse Street.

How many times must you chew each bite of a Lucky Dog to consider it eating?. Three?

Hell, I was in a hurry. It was 1:55 and I had promised people I would be inside at two and I hadn’t eaten all day because I woke up at 4:15 to take a piss and never went back to sleep, microwaved my first cup of coffee at 4:30 a.m. and one after another never stopped and now I know the numbers of all the emergency rooms in town and the helpful website the sheriff’s office has to check who is in Central Lockup the kind man on the the end of the phone told me about.

I forgive my parents for everything.

I was going to have time to go to Camellia Grill between the festival events, I told myself over yet another cup of coffee, notebook in hand. I was certain of this. Why eat anything else when there was a chill cheese omelet in my future? And so I went from room to room in the hotel, dutifully scribbling the notes for the unpaid articles I over-comitted myself to, sat through panels with a cup of coffee nestled under my notebook, caught myself yawning uncontrollably and at some point, my eyes drifting shut lake a man too long in the car and hypnotized by the snaking highway.

Chili, onions and mustard, please

Any of the dozens of fortune tellers in Jackson Square where I stopped for my tube steak brunch could have told me I would be standing outside of Muriel’s in plain site of the hostesses wolfing down a Lucky Dog like a man just rescued from a lifeboat relieved to not eat ensign tartare. Call it a perverted optimism. And hat’s why I’m frying up hot sausage and slicing fresh french bread(just inches from the coffee pot) for a po-boy now that I’m home and drinking a 10% Blockhead instead of coffee. Alcohol, perhaps. I’m going to try to make up my food deficit before I work on the sleep deficit. I’m thinking of putting on some Sun Ra when I’m ready for my well-deserved nap. Never mind that trying to nap to Sun Ra is like trying to make love to a Spike Jones record.

It’s because I know I probably won’t nap.

I have had way to much coffee today, two new books I promised myself I wouldn’t buy and a steno full of notes to at least read over and consider typing up (tomorrow says some voice in my head) and so instead I fire up the TV after I find the dusty remote under a pile of papers and books. It is going to take me almost as long as the reign of Henry the VII to finish the Tudors. Watching television is a form of desperation but I surrender myself to an episode of the megalomaniac costume drama, if only to see the sumptuous costumes lying on the floor. For some reason I hate sleep, hate the waste of it even as it pulls me down onto the come hither pillow and under the borrowed comforter that still smells slightly of someone else’s shampoo, toss and turn through it as if pacing my cage, wake from it constantly from vivid dreams and I’m sure I spend the entire night in REM sleep because I check the clock at all hours of the night with the images still in my head.

I forgot to take my pills last night.

I wake up this morning like every other as if someone had thrown the arcing bar switch with my mind racing and even if I’d taken my pills somehow I will them not to work because I’m not sure I want it to stop, only the forgotten obligations suddenly remembered, the pointless scouring of tomorrows agenda which will unfold like the stripes on the road whether I want it to or not, stop only the claws sunk deep in my head which rip open the scars at the slightest provocation. I take the pills because I want that band around my chest to pop the one I’ve felt since I can remember, the one I dutifully strap on every morning of my own sick volition, the one the doctors tell me is merely anxiety but its not a disorder, it’s who I am and I’m afraid if it stops I will be someone else. I just want it to come out not as panic but as compulsive poetry, as stories someone will read again in adulthood and forgive their parents that book at Christmas, forgive them everything.

I got up at seven this morning and finished this by eight.


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