I oft wonder if the diet coke is an odd kind of hidden suicidal tendency. the worse the outer stressors or the more inflamed the inner terrain, the more the pops and guzzles become obsessive. I look at the can of artificial body-mind damaging fluid and then I slam it back as though it will get me there a moment ahead of time. the mildly mannered illusion of sanity that remains ensures the beverage is as labeled with no arbitrary additives than the usual suspects, no alcohol.
Alcohol. my mom has been reported as saying she likes me better drunk. Then again, she only witnessed that once and I was seventeen on the eve of eighteen–at the height of mother/daughter angst. the mom unit reports the 33 year old liking statement to be a result of the fact that i talk more to her when fully soused than at any other time. great. how could i talk more?! even the Dopt grows weary and wonders off amid the constant stream of rambling banal sweet talk and that is straight up sober.
I can hardly stop flapping my lips. it’s frustrating, embarrassing, awkward, leaves me overexposed, vulnerable. it’s best not to get me started for I am an aloud processor, meaning the spring of trivia or untrivia freely percolates and then drains from my lips with no regard as to whether duly cleaned and censored. the blog helps a tad with all the hidden unposted posts. yet the blog in itself becomes a conversation killer in real space. I visit with one who reads and start a legit ramble and they are like, “oh, I know, I read that on your blog.” stone silence. ok. But my mouth needs to move for you are bipedal. now what? this leaves me with only the uncensored remnant drizziling down my semi cognizant stream, leaking out my mouth and dripping from my chin. it does. bad kathy.
so I go back into the microforest and hope I don’t post anything hurtful as I process the noggin aloud in cyberform, but I do. which when realized, only becomes another blow to the inner terrain. and I slam back another caffeinated fake-sugared beverage.
it is just good the Dopt has boundaries, takes breaks as she needs, is not easily offended, doesn’t hold it against me, and surprisingly returns for more.
a concluding chapter statement in my grad thesis from 2006 was … I sense loss and I drink Diet Coke like a dog gets excited about going for a walk ON A LEASH.
six years ago strewn with a lot of un recognized foreshadowing and diet coke slamming, still my illusive pacifier.
finish work with a good bit remaining (artwork for I am already prepped for the classroom), harvest trailer, unload spheres, load trailer, install solo show next Friday, academic doubles practice already resumed, new crop of washers enter, political pandering at which I suck, needed, job life cycle wans, renewed hunting and self promotion waxes in an economically shutdown academic market, could stand a resume of paychecks as financially stalled summer’s end nears, the next show presses on the heals of this year’s close with its work still to be generated. all good things. ok not really. some definite good things blended into that mix–(art)work to be made, exhibitions, WASHers.
the internal: highly censored, attempts at undisclosure, fantasies of the pen to page scratching out ink writing life…
and YES, the weather is fine and could hardly be better, but dang, pass me another diet coke. NOW please!0