How is the Job? How is the Mind? How is the Soul?
February 28th, 2008I'm okay this morning. Feeling better, a little freer this morning. Having a brighter outlook. Looking forward to new experiences again, excited by the prospects of life.
I was invited to go to Hangzhou this weekend by a frend of mine and his wife, two of the only two truly sweet people I think I have met in this city for whom I can find no ulterior motive or reason for deception. I wish I could go, but I work weekends and have to give two weeks notice to take time off. I really should change my schedule, but I would find it hard to part with the lazy days in which I enjoy my own secluded melancholy.
It's 7:12 AM here. I woke up around 5, smelling like the soap from the massage place downstairs, horribly strong and dry, its fragrance tastelessly repugnant in its mechanic's motor-oil-removing soap-like smell. Coupled by the
wall unit heater burning every molecule of water into two dry hydrogens and a lonely oxygen, compounded by the dehydrating effect of the three bottles of saki I drank at dinner last night, and multiplied by the cheap massage oil clogging my pores and replacing any moisture I had left in my skin with a dry itchy greasy sunburn-like starchiness, I found my eyelids had shrunken like a newbie inmates puckered sphincter around my dry and seemingly pea-sized eyes.
Hmmm... that was descriptive. :)
Anyway, I got up, drank some water (gave some to my eyes too), peed, and couldn't sleep. So I turned on a light that was far too bright and resumed 'Spin' by Robert Charles Wilson.
It's good. Fairly sensual, interesting, not predictable, comfortably real thus far. And best of all, it made me feel good. An hour later, my mind was stimulated, my heart was a bit excited, and my soul was just a tad warmer. I put down the book and turned off the light, and noticed he sun was up.
The light coming through the window brought the descriptive summer scenes of the book with it's barbeques and multiple sunsets and true love-making under an infiniteand impossible living sky to life. I know that in all actuality, it's cold and dreary outside, and that the city out there is full of horrible and cruel people, but I feel good in the comfort of this room with the notions and ideas implanted by a man who disseminated them through dried dark wet dirt patterned onto flattened dead tree matter bound by what once might have been parts of a champion thoroughbred.
Thanks, Mr. author. Thank you dirt. Thank you tree. Thank you horse. Nothing particularly good is happening, but through random instances of variables only seen by me and god, I feel good this morning, and I'm proud to a product of even more complex events and actions who can both understand why and continue to feel it. Thanks Mr. universe. Thank you sister. Thank you father. Thank you mother.
