We Had A Predawn Drizzle Tuesday Morning
I did not go to sleep until Monday 8:30 am after a weekend of reading Harry Potter and drinking it all in. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is a wonderful book. J. K. Rowling can spin a tale, excessive colons, tightened adverbs, and the gratuitous use of the words rent and mutinous included.
After not enough sleep, I woke Monday afternoon with a real splitter. I assumed some coffee, and a coke, or perhaps some chocolate (which we had none) with a Tylenol would do the trick, but it was no prevail. I fancied making my deadline for Midsomer Murders Monday and settled in to rewatch an episode to write about but it was useless. I did indeed hope that Midsomer would calm my restlessness but it did not. The slump has been tugging at me, pulling me, forcefully disorienting my focus. I finished Evelyn Waugh’s The Loved One last week and wanted to write a small book report on it along with a few retorts to some ridiculous excerpts from the last The New Yorker. Nothing has materialized other than a silent scream drowning me in the frustration of the unheard.
The nagging gnawing that comes when one can no longer pretend that he or she knows what they are supposed to be doing with themselves is opening flesh that had previously scabbed over. I thought I knew the answer. I even actively ignored all the complaining from others who possessed the destination I desired. But now, especially after recently being diagnosed with a learning disability I feel that tightrope that I always assumed I had a choice to master is now no longer available. I have in fact fallen and I am on the side that is the other. Before, I thought if I only try hard enough, study and apply myself I could in fact one day teach Literature, the classics, walk into a classroom full of adults ready and willing to extract the nuanced meaning from the pages but now it seems so far out of reach, so beyond not only my grasp but my capability. I am afraid I have in the past fueled myself by thinking that I was able to beat the odds and be something more enjoyable than just a working stiff. Alas, the reality of my wiring is depressing. I think I must force myselt to vist a market selling invigorating lifelines. I must, —I think.