Insanity is the only logical explanation. And even that isn’t a justifiable reason why I act like a complete doofus-head in the past few weeks. Deadlines loom left and right, pressing things require undivided attention and at times, I feel like stepping out for lunch, board a one-way flight to the rainforests of Nepal and anonymously file a missing person registry on my behalf so people will be comfortably resolved of the fact that I am rapidly decomposing elsewhere and move on with the neat choreographies of their respective lives. I know it’s an immature, irresponsible way of putting things into perspective but I pledged madness upfront ergo I believe that it is the only validation I would ever need. Or maybe I’d simply argue my point with a fully loaded nuclear head. I don’t think so. Too much mess.
Weeks have passed and I haven’t had the clarity to write about things that are important, that genuinely matter. Procrastination has nothing to do with it. I have had difficulty finding the proper words to articulate the tremendously draining events and discoveries in the past few weeks. In moments like these, words would conveniently take a holiday, leaving me stumped, miserable, voiceless.
My mother didn’t get a cheap greeting card, not even a ten-second call from me on her birthday a couple of days ago. I feel awful. It’s like a culpable barnacle lodging my brains, multiplying rapidly, emitting paroxysms of guilt racking my nerves. I called her last night and a wisdom-laden, beatific voice assured me that it’s all right but I’d like to believe I’ll never inherit those pricey heirloom whatzits preserved by mothballs. Which is fine by me. Expect that I feel terrible. It’s like I just sat through Sister Mary Fatima’s catechism thesis on what will be in store for ill-behaved boys who murder millions of potential lives with a boner and a busy hand.
Two friends are equally miserable. One is anxious and ambivalent, facing a turnpike pegged with tough choices involving affections, finances, deceits, disloyalties. The other breathes a retrospective wistful ache of the same experience while braving an intangible affection that is stuck between stop lights of daily concerns and immediate burdens. Both are amazing people who, like everyone else, are fumbling through life, making use of whatever wisdom, knowledge or insight that will get them through the spaces between dawn and dusk.
Thinking about these things makes me feel the sublime intensity and truthfulness seamlessly captured in dog barking at the moon by Joan Miro. The painting struck me deeply when I first encountered it in Arts class and it still reverberates in my mind like a well erupting into a delirious song from the weight of a penny from a wisher’s hand.
A dog barking at the moon. Come to think of it. Generally, we all are.