life

Just found a phenomenal poem. It struck a chord with me. Resonately.

And I'm not afraid to use it.

Sister Helen Kelley reminds us, just like that charming Scottish narco addict in the Irvine Welsh novel:

Choose life

only that and always,

and at whatever risk

To let life leak out,

to let it wear away by

the mere passage of time,

to withhold

giving it and spreading it

is to choose

nothing.

Welsh agrees. Well, for the most part. His is more a litergy of consumerism:

Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself.

endo blast

Woke up from a dreamful sleep last night. Somebody handed me an elaborate, brightly wrapped box. Inside was a present: a calendar. It represented the gift of a year.

After my careful reading of Orland T. Outland's thought-provoking fiction, I've had protease-inhibitors on my mind. I can't imagine what it must have been like for the author, who is living positive and had given up on everything. Suddenly, his life was handed back to him by the new drugs and his mother nursed him back to health.

I just finished Outland's book "Different Lives," due out this fall. (I love preview copies. I feel so in the loop whenever I get a sneak preview.)

So my dream was about Outland's wonderful prose. And it was also about going to bed with a full stomach. Well, not exactly a full stomach. I went to bed with the warm, glowing, golden feeling of satisfaction that always follows pleasant conversation. (Belly laughs and silly jokes always make for a high level of endorphine production.)

And it's been a while since I've had a good shot of the ol' endos. (Excepting, of course, my thrice-weekly runs, I haven't gotten them since my heady getting-to-know-you conversations with Steven last summer.)

So the endorphine rush was a thankful addition to my evening. It was brought on by fond recollections of Tonka trucks, nostalgia for J-land and the sparkling conversation that is engendered by new acquaintanceship. There's something so fascinating about the mysterious voice of a stranger on the phone.

The image in the dream might have been (partially) from Mira Kirshenbaum's women's empowerment book, "Gift of a year," where she admonishes women to take a year out of their busy lives to do EXACTLY WHAT THEY WANT TO DO. Reading this fluffy little women's lib book was comforting. It filled in my quiet morning desk hours not that long ago.