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Enter Title Here December 27, 2014

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Some days demand nothing, not a vacuum but an absence of structure. At the holidays in particular there comes a point where a day of aimless amble, perhaps a ramble through Cansecos for a few necessities; all the chores stored up for this expensive long weekend started but left unfinished, at least for today. It is raining. There is a hangover involved, and out too late mesmerized past sense by music. I slept until one, my careful attention to keeping myself on a reasonable schedule when I must get up at 6:30 a.m. most days but have no office where I must appear except as an icon on a screen; that’s shot all to hell. That is where the nothing began: nothing as tangible as the sink of dirty dishes or stepping over the scattered winter clothes on my floor but an abstraction, a one not a zero or a two. A nice, round number, admimiting no possibility of the computation of an endless irrationality. I debated coffee versus pillow, a day of black emptiness but decided I ought to try to get back on something like Corporate Standard Time. The house cleaning I began to late yesterday (as I lingered over a book I wanted to finish) can wait. I might file a few of the carefully stacked papers, clean off the kitchen table, pass a Swiffer over the freshly mopped floor where I spilled coffee grinds this morning. Or I might not. I have other books to linger over. The grey overcast is a lullaby of listlessness, relieved only by the pool of lamplight at the couch. A new book, the Kinks anthology I received for Xmas, grown children who do not demand to be taken out into the snow or to the theater for some Xmas release, no demand to make Barbie talk or battle to conquer the Pokemon universe. Those days are long behind me. Nothing ventured, nothing gained: nothing true about that statement. A careful review of the mix of “See My Friends” by headphones, the new book of poetry from the book club I just rejoined. Nothing ventured, something gained: composure, an easing of the infernal spring inside my head, yesterday’s escape from Beckett’s The Unamable, my own compelling or distracting voices stilled by the overwhelming presence of the narrator’s voices. The only voice today is recognizably my own, relaxed enough for the first time in uncountable time to simply share my thoughts here, the pinnacle of the day. That and perhaps a piece of pie.

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