Me?  I can sit behind a keyboard and just about pound out a Beatles tune, or one of these.  I can think about going outside all day until dusk descends, then, going out in the fading light, I don’t need sunscreen for the cancer hotspot on my nose.   I can brood for long periods of time and I can dream, can’t I?   I had a dream once that I was dreaming of a dream I once dreamt, though I don’t recall that one very well.

My mother, I observed myself and am reminded by Sekhnet from time to time (by way of comparison to me), was in a low grade depression much of her life.  She went to work punctually, did her job with great intelligence, cleaned the house, cooked dinner every night, hosted the occasional guests with good cheer, had a good sense of humor, was quite competent in everything she did, laughed and cried often, regularly went to the opera, was an enthusiastic reader, etc.  But at bottom she was the little girl from the Bronx standing at a great buffet without plate or fork watching everyone else lick their lips and talk about how delicious the food is.

Sekhnet claims I am pretty much the same way, though I don’t go to work punctually, do my job with great intelligence, clean the house, or like opera.  I also don’t see a great feast around me where everyone is loving their food.  If this is a great feast, it is not one that most people are enjoying that much, by the looks of it.  If distracted, anxious rats running on treadmills in terror of death is a great feast, this one here is one of the greatest ever.

Still, what can you do?  You know what they say about opinions and blahgs being like assholes.  It becomes clear, in a moment of clarity like this, that someone like me is merely tapdancing on a treadmill when he writes something like this.  It would be nice if I could get that feeling of a job well done from a bit of preening here on this free soapbox, if it made me feel as good as the fashion designer who publicizes her latest triumph here, or the minor award winner who crows a bit here, or the young novelist who interacts with readers here, you know.  But what can you do?  Some days it’s a triumph to step out of the damp underwear, get into the shower and emerge clean and ready for the dusk.