there is a really fine line between me feeling sad and me feeling sick. my mood is currently so connected to my body i feel like a simple sneeze can cause depression. today was mostly sour, and this brings me inward and forces me to simply meditate on all the minor inconveniences of my humanity and the only thing i can think of to numb all of this is the tinkling of ice cubes and a dash of bourbon. (“ah-hah!” he mutters from over there, “i knew you had a problem. and that is my problem!”)

anyways, i have many outlines of poignant plot moments i’ve been collecting from my autobiography and i would like to eventually turn them into a new york times bestseller or at least a piece of fiction in the new yorker. that large fish in the backroom of cindy’s office that got killed during the cleaning riot, those walks and smokes with frank, mostly every sexual thought and/or experience i’ve ever had, and then days like today. the problem is i’ve lost the message, which my creative writing prof said was always key when you sat down to type. the first “meaning” i choose for that story i called ‘canaan’ was something like “life is simply a continual practice in the art of self-delusion.” this isn’t a bad focus, however it does give me a few twinges of regret personally.

so let’s take that cindy/fish story… i’d probably call it “school” and hope that the title added resonance as i went through various characters learning moments and tied in the fact that her husband was a high school teacher and that’s pretty much where all the other characters got caught up in the mess. there would have to be a scene about cindy getting the fish from some fundraiser event, you know, one of those game where you throw a ball in cup and win a goldfish that probably will die by the time you get out to the parking lot. well, hers didn’t, and it grew and lasted decades, like everything else she got her fingers on. it’s tank looked disgustingly slimy and overwrought with algae, but she claimed it was perfectly healthy and the type of culture he needed to live in. (not unlike her own house…) and then it impressed me and i metaphorically connected it to her and somehow or another it got killed by luke and julie whilst ravaging her life and trying to give it a good polish. um…but where’s the meaning? i have collected so many of these moments and i’m waiting to flush ’em out, but perhaps i am not spending enough time on the details. is it comic or tragic? hopeful or cynical?

and so i drink and listen to music and research gay or alcoholic writers and hope that in their own lives i’ll find mine??? well, it’s true so i’m putting it down here now perhaps to come back later and do a little editing.

oh, it should also be noted that i’ve written about this fish stuff before in a post for cindy HERE.