Long time, no C . . . wait . . .

I had a terrible nightmare last night. Much longer than this exegesis but its ending is I am stuck in an airport (about which I have dreamed before) where I have ended up after walking, wandering, wondering on long, scary roads, hefting ridiculously cumbersome baggage, without actually knowing I was headed for an airport and booked on a flight. I arrive and enter and search for help and am told (always) my plane is near ready to depart. Someone points me toward the departure area and I start to run but I never get there. In this dream, I did finally find a departure area door but wrong airline and they slammed it shut and locked it just as I arrived and wouldn’t open it, answer my questions, or help me.

I think this dream means I should have died a long time ago but keep missing my exit flight because I have too much fucking baggage.

Anyway . . .

I wish I could tell you the dearth of posts on this supposed book blog has to do with mad progress on a writing project or endless bookings of my personal concierge/house/pet-sitting services, but, alas, not the case. My writing is sucking. MY house/pet sitting bookings are sadly slim this summer. And my dearth of posts has to do with an ever decreasing will to live. As I said recently, I feel like a tire with a slow leak. I can’t find or patch the hole – perhaps all of my tread is just so thinned out it can’t contain air – and so, this slow, silent, invisible seeping goes on, and the tire gets flatter and flatter, making rolling along increasingly difficult. I need to stop. Park. be done.

This isn’t suicidal ideation, but, rather, existential fatigue.

I’m just tired of being alive. I’m exhausted by living in a world in which the majority of the accepted wisdom and cultural norms, the measures of success and love and normal, seem – to me – to be somewhere between idiotic and cruel. The world, I think, has missed the point.

And, when one feels that sort of disconnect – from nearly everyone and everything – and has to manage to keep going, to feign attachment and involvement, to avoid frightening one’s friends and family, well, it’s tiring.

So, I’m tired.

But, that said, oddly,as tired as I am – I go to the gym nearly every day and I’ve lost twenty-five pounds over the past few months and somehow, I am attractive to men in ways I’ve never been before. I cannot tell you (really, I can NOT) about the younger fellows at the gym who have hit on me when I was barely dressed. Just yesterday, in the sauna, gorgeous 20-something throws open his towel, walks by me and says, “Meet me in the showers.”

I’m not clear why these sorts of things didn’t happen to me when I was younger and might have had the energy for them. I’m too fucking tired. Or, wait – that should be funny somehow but . . . see. Too tired to make it work. And by it I mean . . . never mind.

I am tired.

Nevertheless, today, I am going to attempt to slap together a post about the books I’ve read since the last book post on May 26. No promises. But, I’m going to try. Because, there hasn’t been enough C lately.

(Can someone do something with that, please?)

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