can·did (manage my imagining)

May 17, 2012

a·nal·o·gous
why?
because it looks funny.

i used to think…
“my imagination is broken”
but that is not honest – only fanciful
sounds interesting, like a children’s book
explaining why mom cries in bed
why dad just sits with his head in his hands
why the adults around them
who are supposed to be taking care of them,
teaching them, nurturing them are so:
unavailable??remote??unbreachable??disengaged??preoccupied??
adult in all the worst ways and
screaming inside themselves: please just let me catch my breath
my imagination is broken, the world is grey
that is why my dear i cannot play
so for the forseeable future and especially today
i am asking you to please go away

dis·in·gen·u·ous
its more, just really damn tired
everything is sluggish
it takes too much energy to fire the thing up
i can play – slowly, quietly – i have, i do
even if all the while the best imagining i can manage is oblivion
(pat the bunny, pat me on the back)
i can i did
candid: its so hard to write about this (depression)
and not have it sound like teenage death poetry
(not to belittle teenage suffering)
the desire to be heard (understood) when attempting explanation
-overstatement might not be possible-
but i think there is a tendency toward the melodramatic
embellishment for immolation, extinguish me and call me a hero
and all of a sudden it all seems so ridiculous
to say: look how real / how big the pain is – my pain
as if everyone is not hurting and i am not exceptionally blessed
look at me, no here, me ME – the hooray hero for living
give me a big… lets hear it everybody…
– hesswell (but notsowell)
the anguish the despair the suffering = the drama
the words are so loaded and hard to take seriously
(esp) when compared to Africa or loss or visible illness

so can one just say – I hurt.
without quantification/qualification
without following that up with
no really folks, really, it really hurts
right here – in my chest
xiphoid process not processing properly
brain also broken
frightening physical oddities, annoyances, pain
as well – not well
worried, guilty
about those same kids and their mom
the ones from the book
with the dad who barely moves when they jump on him
who doesnt want to talk at dinner (if he shows up)
who hides in his room guarded by his wife
protect them from his selfishness
stop you must not hop on pop, it hurts
i hurt.
i’m sorry.

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3 Responses to “can·did (manage my imagining)”

  1. reswannb Says:

    Ugh. I am feeling sad for you these days . . . sorry you are so low. Your words are hard—to hear, but more for you to live. Of course always wishing we could make it better. Love you, thanks for sharing. (P.S. I loved your post awhile back “enter unfair advantage” . . . it was precious.) Must not hop on pop also brilliant at the end here, among many other brilliant parts as well. Hey, at least your brilliant :-)!

  2. Lindsey Says:

    Caught up on your posts now — so many painful clevernesses to amuse and distress. I like the less-polished posts, vivid vulnerability, chaotic in form and meaning, with that hauntingly persistent objective streak. Not to say “at least your brilliant (smile)…” though I do miss your brilliant smile… but to say, good job, making this (hard) lemonade from moldy lemons. And sorry about the lemons.


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