the weeping philosopher
Last night, in my sleep, the end of my relationship is reenacted as a ballet. We dance well in the beginning; then we start to trip up. After that I end up in a dimly lit bedroom with my father, desperately trying to explain how I will continue to seriously write next year while maintaining a sustainable income. The outlook was so frightening and bleak that my eyes snapped open after six hours of sleep, and I spent a half hour or so shivering under the blankets before realizing that further sleep would be impossible because I was too busy thinking up projected budgets and wondering which cities I could move to where people might lend me furniture. Not much room for interpretation here. To quote Louise Glück, "I hate when your own dreams treat you as stupid." And the year has only just begun.
What economy? And: runaway Brazilian slave communities versus the Brazilian space program. I didn't know either of those existed.
Today a trip to the Terrapin Coffee Brewery in Coralville is probably in order. I can spend the money I don't have on a big pint glass of wake-up juice, and I'll be forced to actually stay at the table and write. I'll just pace and brood at home.
