Love in the Time of Corona– Ride a Painted Pony

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Maybe I’ll just sit here and pretend to type a bit–

You’re not pretending to type; you’re typing.

I don’t know when I’ve been this paralyzed with the writing

How’s most of your life since anybody ever said you were one? Seem about right?

The anxiety travels up my neck on either like liquid fire, reaches around and covers my face, my eyes, and yes, now, my nose and mouth so the breathing has stopped.

Breathe!

God, I am so sick of hearing people say that. You, breathe! (but then I realize I’m not breathing so I do)

Here’s part where you—yes, like that, run fingers like rakes where hair used to be, find COVID-stubble, the result of the Corona-shave. 

I’ve not been to the page in days. Writing has been my salvation—

Has it? You seem to say that a lot but you also seem to need more saving.

This time, instead of the fingers coming to the head, the face comes to the hands. I’m tired. The fingers are tired. My body feels tired. But the mind is never quiet. [This is a problem that is (at the very least) helped by and (at the very most) solved by meditation. This I know not just because I’ve seen it demonstrated in the lives of many I’ve known over the years who have benefited immensely by it up to and including at least a couple very well-respected teachers who would remind me that that would be a terrible reason to meditate or maybe they wouldn’t because they’d think “anything that will his ass on that zafu and that brain out of hyperdrive—

Woah, woah, that’s one helluva run-on sentence and how about we try to just close those brackets and move on?

Fine. ] There. Happy?

Almost never.

I noticed.

In three minutes my mom’s friend, Donna King, who is also my friend will come on Facebook live and do her nightly devotional. I can’t always tune in but it usually gives me peace when I do.

 

21:19. I’m back and I do feel better. I really do love that woman.

Nice. So you feel like you might could write a little more?

I just said goodnight to Matthew. When he wakes up to go to work, I’ll be asleep. My emotional health is better when I early-to-bed-early-to—

Not what I asked but in I have your answer.

Awe come on, man. Don’t be like that.

How many nights do you suppose Tennessee Williams wrote through the night? And I thought you said you were a Marine—

I’m. I never said I was a Marine, to use your verb. (That’s actually pretty brilliant given the whole convention of having two voices in conversation and only discerning the difference with italicized and non-italicized–)

Excuse me, did you just call yourself brilliant?

Here’s and idea, why don’t I just post this.

As a blog?! I think you’ve probably rode that “look inside the crazy mind of a crazy writer” pony about as much as anyone can take. At least slap some interesting paint on the poor old thing! You don’t want to be considered a one-trick—

Wait, I thought you said I was riding a pony (again, your verb). Am I riding the pony or am I the pony? Is it a painted pony or a one-trick pony?

I’d say it’s probably both—

I’d say, how’s this for a proposal: how about I thank you for sparing with me (or helping practice writing adversarial dialogue or keeping me sane or insane) and log on off for tonight. Breeze on by WordPress and drop this in the outbound box—

There’s no–

Thanks but I think you’re done for tonight. You could type the ABCs and put them up on your blog and it would be a “W.”

I thought you said it would be ABCs.

Funny. How about you show up with that whit at 09:00 tomorrow?

I believe you meant “wit.”

Fine. And your discerning eye for spotting malapropisms. (Is that a real malapropism or just a misspelling?) I’m going to bed. Goodnight.

Don’t forget to drop the blog on your way.

Shouldn’t I at least read through it first?

If you don’t you won’t post it.

Touché. Bon Nuit.

Uh, I believe those are supposed to be italicized.


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