All afternoon I have been operating under the persistent delusion that I am able to play the guitar. It is a shattering disappointment, every few minutes, when I get ready to walk across the room to grab bean's trusty Yamaha acoustic, when I realize I won't know what to do with my hands if I
do.
I am, therefore, disproportionatly angry at my own hands.
There, I nearly did it again, probably out of a spirit of defiance more than anything else.
:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:In the night I wake up every few hours. I open my eyes & stare into the dark & try to figure out where the cats are in the house. I always fall right back asleep, wake again, repeat cycle. My dreams last night involved non-anthropomorphic dogs that someone had dressed up in swank little suits so that they could be detective dogs, & bean looking up into some trees saying, "The leaves are so soft! How can that be!"
When I woke up I had the plans in my head for a box I could build. I like to imagine myself working all weekend on a series of tiny wooden boxes: just me & the power saws & the belt clamps & the stereo.
This morning I didn't go to Mass; if I had gone, I could have heard one of my favorite bits, from the first letter to the Thessalonians:
You have no need for anything to be written to you, for you yourselves know that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night.
� which I love (italics mine) even if it is followed by weird labor-pains metaphors & then an exhortation not to "sleep as the rest do," even if it is St Paul, from whose side I would like to remove the thorn.
