7 - 12/1 - home sunroom orange chair

 I'm here in my favorite chair at home. anjalie is playing good music over the living room speakers, and blurry, downstairs from sleeping on my bed, is sitting in a sunspot. He yawns and sawllows and looks away, towards nothing. Five String Serenade comes on, and Anjalie skips it to play Fly. 

Now if it's time to recompense for what's done

Come, come sit down on the fence in the sun

And the clouds will roll by

And we'll never deny

It's really too hard for the fly

So. That's pretty spot on. I've had a beautiful morning, and I'm writing in the sun, and the clouds are rolling by, and yet I still find a need to complain about the sound of my own buzzing, sometimes in my ear, but most of the time not, an omnipresent buzz, a pester beyond expression. 

I wish I could write myself into satisfaction!

I don't know what it feels like, to be one with the little things and feel something other than want of peace, satisfaction, happiness. That's what's most peaceful about times like this: it's just me and the need for more, me and my hole, and we're really not all that disagreeing. That is to say, we're blended. Ew I don't like that. Doesn't convey. IT SIMPLY DOESN'T CONVEY!!!!!!

Let me try again. Im gonna try again In times like this, I look up and around and hear wow i really have it made, wow im doing nothing and i feel like i have nothing to do, wow the leaves are shimmering and swaying in the music and the sun, there is no wind and yet they still move, everything is still, wow. everything is still. And what creeps in after he attempts to speech-act that peacefulness into my heart is the shoulds. the wow you're really doing nothing, at a time like this, you're really feeling nothing? (you should...) at a time like this? you're basically nothing? (you should...) is that what I'm hearing? All these pleasures and yet nothing? (you should...)

I conceive being to be a happy state of not doing. So when I get to a place where I'm

Sometimes my mind don't shake and shift

But most of the time, it does

And I get to the place where I'm begging for a lift

Or I'll drown in the wonders and the was

I'm on the orange chair in the sun and my feet aren't cold. Anjalie is writing her college essays next to me, and the wonders and the was are but an echo of last nights squirm, the cold feet tickle-tortured by the grasping hands under the lake's placid surface. I'm not shaking, or shifting. So why am I still begging for a lift? Is being floating? It feels like if not, then I'm sinking. I could never float on my back. Never got the angle right.