So Depressed

Shame on Time Magazine. People who want bad news should have to go looking for it, not have it shoved in their face at the checkout line. Turns out, their "'Future of Work" feature was a lot of the same old same-old, made to sound evil on the cover precis so as to sell a pile of magazines. I think the Lord said, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." To that I add, "Sufficient unto reality is the evil thereof." That reminds me, never watch a "Saw" movie. My neighbor tricked me into watching until I figured out what it was and left. That was years ago, and the unwelcome memory persists. Imagine how it must haunt the people who worked on it. No wonder the Amish don't watch TV -- you can't "unwatch" anything.

It sucks to be without a muse. There isn't any man I'm attracted to, nor any I wish I could be with -- not even Anwar. Without a muse, things are just what they are. They're not enchanted or symbolic or props in a larger story. The future doesn't open up into the promising unknown; it just plods along familiar paths or worse ones. I know that isn't true; it's just how I feel. A muse probably would not make me feel better at the moment 'cuz -- I don't know why. Maybe I'm ovulating or something. It's just biologically time for me to feel bad until I bleed, I think.

I don't even really want a muse. There has to be something better. There are dreams and goals, for example. They make for a pretty self-centered emotional flywheel, but if they're accessible they could be better than nothing at all. 'Trouble is, this is reality; everyone's broke; everyone's worried; people are mean; prospects look bleak. So dreams and such are not very accessible.

Fortunately, we live in a world with animals. If things have to be "just what they are" it's nice to know that some things are great just being what they are -- dogs, cats, elephants, butterflies. I'm certain they're all going to heaven, even the mosquitoes, who won't bite anybody when they get there because I guess the angels will feed them.

Reflecting on the stressful life I've led -- and I mean stress worse than I acknowledged it to be at the time, real bad stuff -- I wonder why I'm still in such apparently good health. Maybe it's because (in my twenties) I took rest when I needed it -- even at inappropriate times, like when I was supposed to be doing stuff -- and because I usually had a muse. You know, maybe a lot of the strange stuff about my past was survival fare. Stress offset by much-needed rest and a heart full of unconditional love. (I loved those guys for who they were, not because I thought I would win them. Because for the most part I didn't think I was going to win them. Some of them were nice, too.)

This might be my last post, because it breaks my heart that hardly anyone ever reads my blog. I'll post a few pics and see if I can just leave it at this.