Loops

… … … Get up!

Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! –

Marvin Gaye whispers, chuckles. Slugabed to slug out of bed. Army roll over patchwork quilt, first toe-dip into day. Unpleasant, unperked. Sleep’s gauze clinging on half-socked plod to second room, floating web with dream-catch, gobs scattering on carpet, grey, plod, grey, then window, crepuscular white. Cat a ball of darkness in the still-dark: crouched, then scurrying, then meeping, then more. Yes cat, soon cat. Me first cat. The urgency in little pleading face, strange, frantic, ugly – such a funny, predictable distrust. Frets till fed. Can’t argue with that. You never know.

Brown slurry in chipped bowl (are you PROTEIN getting PROTEIN enough PROTEIN?). Watch carefully! Crouch down to look through little lit window as it spins. The gruel that runneth over is no bounteous cup. Happened before; often, even. The deformities of living alone, elasticity to oddness, goblin-ease. But, if bubbling tamed, if crouch is vigilant by little lit window, then brown sliding warm down-inside feels like victory. Feels like: safe. Spoon-fools of safe. We won the morning! Comfort of repetition, anticipation sated more than taste, knowing exactly what’s to come: structure where chaos can’t <s>DIS-ORDER</s>. Bit neurotic. Bit like cat. We are our habits: good and bad. (Modest pearl rubbed often. Found or made?)

I’m Terry Gross, and welcome to FRESH Air! Today: ‘Yes, Mr. Arthur has visited me; I've got arthritis,’ says ‘Broadway legend Andre De Shields [doesn’t walk, he floats]’. Podcasts every morning, every walking, every dishwashing: plug. Recently, a thought, not original: original thoughts deferred? Anxious tamping of dead (not-dead!) space with chit-for-chat? This Zombie Life? Rat-a-tat-tat? Fret. Keep listening. Will learn. Remember?

André De Shields on Broadway at 80. André De Shields singing proud for Terry Gross. André De Shields had AIDS for eight eleven years and nobody told him. André De Shields made himself king. 

Carpet fabric huffed: tight tendons must be soothed. (Motion is lotion, another podland voice, another pearl to rub, rub, rub till it’s loose.) Frog pose, dog piss, cat-cow, the rest. Good pain (burn) bad pain (pinch). Mystechs jostling the periphs, terrifying really – pinched faces, torsos crunched to split wide open (Here’s what I eat in a day to stay lean!). Fine line between #killingit queen and cut worm, wriggling to another real. Chumps for shills. Can’t resist though, the dream of all peachy, in ass and in life. Fear of age/ache always. 

Read Adler (timer: 30 minutes). Shower (hot water tank: seven minutes). Second breakfast (shaky without: often).Dream of not needing to eat at all. Free.

Then again, the salted quail egg.

Desk at home’s back, building’s front. Sun lifting gummy lid, licking cold leaves puce to cadmiumgreen on other side of pane. Keep the shutters clenched though. Opening newly feels like flinch, feels like wet shower curtain, feels like end of a wrecking high and slime-claw stranger is touching soft back of upper arm. Shut-in/out. Bad tightcope artist, always wobbling for the even between over and under. (Mind over… doesn’t matter.)

Screen swallow/s, focus. Hold till hunger.

[You unblocked this person]

I don’t think I want to reconnect because it wouldn’t do my head any good, but I just wanted to tell you that I think about you every day, and I miss you, and I still want to tell you everything, big and small. I hope ur doing ok

<<sent>>

Where to put the share-impulse. Darting out in [—] direction, happy flight to dead nest, grab its swollen throat-song and twist. Mind-grope for the arm that was there (the base of all need, there) phantom limb pain of Other body, split self.

Memory: his right hand on the wheel, left hand in mine. Tucked.

Rage loop now. Stupid.

Screen swallow, gulp; tabs to attend.

Notes app / 2026 DAILY >>

Sad is cringe.

The only way out is through. Power up, glow up, find your confidence. You found joy in the aftermath once, you can do it again.

You have some control over the thoughts that enter your head, and your mood. Remember: emotions are caused by your mind's reactions to events/situations, not the events themselves. It's all about mindful framing and attitude. 

Remember: there's no going back. You live with the consequences of your actions, for ever. 

Hating M. Aurealis though. Can’t help but read flint without fire, everstain of contempt. (Shame at the overfeel.)

And Sue Tompkins talk-sings: ‘Feeling that way about difficult people / Feeling that way about difficult people / Slip away, slip away / You’re beautiful but slip away / You’re beautiful but you’re going to slip away like that… ch-ch’

Melancholy loop now. Stupid. 

Watch Widow's Bay on Paramount+ (his family account, he knows, would never delete user profile: ‘egg’). Sentimental freeloading, last pocket of kept. Thought: generosity as guilt-repellent (prevailing mood is unkind).  

Finish Episode 4 aka ‘how to make friends and dig yourself a bigger hole’ (oh Patricia). Couch dinner is chicken (grilled), pumpkin (zapped) and shouldn’t also, but also ‘what’s your cheapest whiskey’ (neat).  

Gloaming hush, nighttime jangles. Head to Jubilee Park. (Memory: ‘Walkies?!’ Jumping up and down i.e. jubilation, ha, ha.) Straight line north, ground hobbling up and down, watery for a blink. Headful of efdemin (electronic meds) trot, trot, nnst, trot. Past café with blankets. Past cactus tree by azure-splendid house. Past shaggy dog (pads level so pretend he’s mine, magic protector, footpath guardian – – – pads on). Damp underpass. Tramsheds gold-lit. White-faced heron poking thin creek. At last: resurfacing The Great Sublime in tangle of big-tree-roots. Beautiful ancient holding the under, steadfast, moss-knuckled. Strange pink glow in the east.

Home. Bed. Small paws pressed on chest, warm grace-weight.

Lamp reach. Dark.