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Jett Superior laid this on you on || April 22, 2008 || 11:44 pm

Because my feet are bare.

What I love is when a commercial tells me what I need in that exact language, i.e. “What you need is…”, and I’m able to answer back to it and say, “No, what I really need right about now is some warm kneesocks.”

(The heather grey ones are dirty, so I put on the black ones with the coral-colored stitching across the toes.)

The insomnia has been at bay for a long time now. ‘A long time’ being close to five weeks. ‘Insomnia’ meaning the kind that keeps me up at all costs, the kind that is not polite enough to acknowledge things like exhaustion or a necessary early wake-up. The toss-and-turn-and-wake-suddenly variety pretty much stays with me; I guess it is less fickle than the brand that wants me wide awake and cranking on all gears. Misery loves company, is what I’m told…and hardcore insomnia is indeed miserable.

Personifying a thing: It’s one of my most nimble gifts as a woman of the writery persuasion.

This world is big and full of ancient things. Sometimes those things get stuck fast in my barely-adequate brain. Like the Sadness. I’m always rushing after beauty, digging up songs and paintings and new shoes and smiling children, always turning over the leaves that cover them so that I can bring them here to you like a hopeful dog: “Look! Look what I found to distract us!”

But the Sadness in the world is so big and imposing and omnipresent and it seems to find me, to overrun me and crowd out what little of worth I have to give to you, to anyone. Some people can smell it on me for miles off, and it’s those people that I avoid like the plague, because they tend to either be people hell bent on being mean to someone they sniff a weakness in, or they are (far worse) intent on Fixing somebody. The former causes a fight. The latter causes me embarrassment.

“My kind of broke don’t need your kind of fixing.” I said that to somebody one time, and maybe saying it made it true, I don’t know. What I do know is that I should pen a watery, insistent blues song that has that little sentence at its heart.

The world is noisy on nights like these, but noisy in a low-hum kind of way, and it seems as if I can sense the tears of a thousand sets of eyes, feel the burning of knees and knees and knees laid too long to floor in supplication, hearing all the while the insistent keening of hearts that want even while begging release of their burdens. It’s not so much the awareness of all these things, I don’t guess; it’s more the hapless tendency to compulsively put them on, to wear them as if they were mine and I need to take responsibility over them. That’s what keeps me lying, hand resting in the curve of my bare waist, awake and trying to figure out what penance I could possibly perform so that I’ll be allowed the tender bliss of dreamless slumber just one more time.

I wish there were answers better than my own.

1 worked it out »

  1. Have emailed you a draft version of that there song

     

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