Somehow it got to be Wednesday, and I went to class, and there was no one there. I couldn't find anyone else either. I asked a few people, and they were all fairly certain that it was Wednesday, although a woman with green hair told me that it was whatever day I needed it to be.
It is not June 9th, 1982. To be honest, I'm not sure that is the exact day, mind you. The point holds -- if I got to choose, I choose far before now, so that my next pass this way doesn't.
The fried rice is cheap here, worth what it costs too. I think of it as food that gets me full. The peas are inocuous enough, but the carrots are an ominous orange, and I am afraid that their lineage partakes of petrochemical descent.
Luckily, today is sunny, the first break in the clouds in over a week. So regardless of what day it isn't, it is an OK day with me. The breeze from the ocean is dancing with eucalyptus boughs, and I half remember Laphroigh, but the other half remembers only the drink, the hot fire like a first sunny day in a winter of springs. Eucalyptus and salt -- mint citrus salt -- and a chicken basting slowly on a spit. Today.
Not a day for working. I'm too disconnected to work - or study - today I am adequate to the tasks of the day, but I know them less than the day.
If I keep acting like it is Wednesday, does it become more probable? That's the class that isn't where I'm not, by the way; probability. I would guess that it's normally there, if you don't mind a math joke. Thank you.
Today I feel a slow power. It's under my bones, behind my skin, pulsing slowly like a huge gong of quartz in a tone so high it slices below consciousness. I can hear the secondary beats as it moves slowly through my awareness. This is the final strength, the calcium song, the flux before the focus.
I've seen oaks get hit by lightning. The fire leaps up from them, ripping the sky down. Today I could do that, even though I cannot tell why I don't know the day. I could rip the sky down, for a moment, and at the end I would hold it in my hands and disappear. This is no small power, this dynamo hum as my mind unwinds.
There was a factory I worked in, we used to get these giant spools of wire. One day I was cutting the tie-strand and it whipped around and bit my arm as spool shook crinkling like a million volts of insane static in bell-bronze. Someone had overwound the roll, too tight, far too tight. I stood listening to the roll as its buzz slipped down into inaudible vibrations, never knowing that I had been cut until the sound of the blood dripping from my fingertips overwhelmed the hive harrow of the steel.
Sunday I cut the ties, Monday I bled, yesterday I was vibrating, and today is Wednesday and I can hold the sun in my hands. Tomorrow I will be myself, perhaps, and the hard will be easy and the easy will be hard. Today is Wednesday, and I believe I have nothing left to do or say.