Thursday, February 16, 2012


Back to waking up (if that's what you would call the blind-kitten bumbling) to strange songs in my head. This morning, it was the chorus from Cool Jerk

Can you do it can you do it can you do it
Can you do it can you do it can you do it
Can you do it can you do it

(and now that's some kind of ... eye-opener? challenge?) don't ya think?

Last Sunday, which was very cold, the heat was out in the apartment for many cold hours. Now, it is stupid hot again. I mention this as I have the overhead fans on. The fan in the middle room bumps and ticks and I realize I feel a bit as Martin Sheen did at the beginning of Apocalypse, Now: "Saigon, shit. I'm still only in Saigon."

Going to therapy three times a week is a privilege, of course, but it can also effect you in mysterious ways. You might stumble across something, you might connect with something that you don't even get on the conscious level, which can send your psyche into hiding. At these times, all I know is that I cannot focus. I need to, want to, dive into the canyon that is sleeptime and be away from consciousness.

So, I gave myself forty minutes to check out. Only when I set my alarm, I unconsciously set it for a.m. instead of p.m. My responsible, get-stuff-done self managed to surface and question how long "we" had been gone. 2.5 hours. I did struggle to move around again, but I can still feel the tugging.

If you are wondering what the point might be, so am I. I feel I am still swimming back to my control center, and the current is pretty strong in the other direction. Of course, I am always pleased that I am not terribly depressed, down, but not depressed.

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