Cement gray sky and there's a chopper moving back and forth overhead and I feel like I'm in downtown LA or something, okay, probably not but that helicopter, Jesus, I guess it's shooting radar on the interstate which is just a quarter mile or so down the road. Way to disturb the peace, motherfuckers!
Also, for those of us who grew up during the Viet Nam War era, a chopper sounds disturbingly like war. We got that footage every damn night on the TV while we ate our dinners of Ground Beef and Something casserole, iceberg lettuce with tomato and French dressing salad. Body bags and burning babies. Oh yeah, we ALL have PTSD whether we were there or not and if you were there, I don't know how you've managed to live this long. My stepfather, whose very presence made me physically ill would slop his dinner, no matter what it was, on slices of white bread and eat them, slowly, methodically, that's how they did it in the Depression and he never quit. He'd slur his words, talking constantly about the Veet Nam War, how they needed to use the bomb on those people, how these long-haired hippies ought to be shot. The man didn't drink but he sure could take some pills. My mother would try to make peace, try to create some reason and sanity where none existed, my little brothers sat wide-eyed, everyone just wanted to get the fuck out of there, get that dinner over with, get those dishes in the dishwasher, let that man get back in his chair in front of the TV, go back to our rooms and shut the doors, have at least the illusion of a barrier between us and him.
No wonder I became a hippie, it's a miracle I didn't become a Communist.
I dated a guy once who'd been a chopper pilot in Viet Nam. He was crazy as a sprayed roach. (Thank you, Pat for that phrase which I told you I would steal and now I have.) He really was. He loved the sound of the chopper. Do not ask me why.
I feel like I'm hungover and I am not. Valerian root tea? Maybe. I have to clear the cobwebs, get out there and walk, get to town and pretend to be a normal person, get some shit done. Also- make phone calls. Fuck. I hate making phone calls. I'd rather dig ditches. It's not cold, it's not warm. It's not raining, it's not clear. It's not late and it's sure not early. I got my best sleep this morning from six to nine. Dogs and light and tossing and turning and this is just one of those days. One of those cement-sky days, helicopter thudthudthudding overhead, not enough covering on the old basal ganglia to protect the delicate balance of intake and insight, azalea blossoms droop-down-dead and brown.
What are you going to do?
Grind it out, grind it out, get out there and grind it out.
Sometimes life's a beach, sometimes life's a bitch. Sometimes you are life's bitch. That is the reality of the situation.
We go on.