My Procrastination Jottings: Hunger Walks

Photo Courtesy of Me

I’ve done this so many times.  (Photo Courtesy of Me)

I am desperate again.  This time it’s because I’m hungry.  Terribly, ravenously hungry.  I’ve been hungry for days, there’s no end to it.  I can’t do anything except agonize in the clutches of the goddamn hunger.  I suppose this might be premenstrual hunger.  Who knows.  The gnawing makes me so bitter and forlorn that I’m not bulimic anymore and therefore can’t appease the hunger.  And that’s not good; it’s been so long since I’ve really, sincerely wished I could throw up.

I’ve been walking my ass off in an attempt both to stifle the hunger and to counter the effects of it, but I just can’t keep up.  This afternoon I desperately stormed out of the house in a ravenous frenzied fury, to try to escape the pain and panging and beating of the goddamn hunger against me.  I got in my car and drove to the bay, shaking, too hungry and anxious and tormented to really think about or realize the movements and turns I was making while buckling my seat belt, backing out of the driveway, driving across town and stepping out onto the sand.  I walked in the sun from the end of the beach over to the ferry, where I couldn’t walk any further because a fortress of rocks was piled up across the sand going out into the water, and everything past and around the fortress was roped off and there were signs posted in all directions that read, OFFICIAL PERSONNEL ONLY.  NO TRESPASSING.  VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.  Because I’m one of those lackluster, risk-averse people who never have the balls to cross No Trespassing signs, I turned around and plodded back disappointedly, in the sun, this time at the edge of the water so my feet could get wet and I could more easily take the blaring heat.   Continue reading

Hibernaculum

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Photo Courtesy of Me

If you think I’ve been absent for so long (again) because I’ve been busy finding and getting a life, you’re sorely mistaken.  Actually, it’s rather the opposite:  I haven’t been around because I’ve been swallowed down deeper and deeper into the swamp of hibernation and have been lying there dormant and silent.  I sank to the floor of the swamp sometime in the dead of winter, during January or February maybe, and remained sleeping there undisturbed and unruffled throughout the rest of the season.  Meanwhile, the world has been going about its business and everyone has been living their lives and weathering the winter as always.  All of the swamp life around me has been flourishing as well; the mallards and sparrows and screech owls have all been attending to their affairs.  And I haven’t given much of a damn.  I’ve been lying comfortably on the murky bottom, underneath everything, benevolently cloaked by silt and mud and sundew buds and covered by moss, saturated in the rich decaying biomatter seeping into me.  It’s been quiet and very stagnant and very warm here and I haven’t had any desire to change things.

A few weeks ago, however, on a rare occasion that I’ve bothered to leave the house, I noticed that things are changing regardless when I visited a nearby stretch of woodland.  Continue reading

My Sanity Walks (Introduction to an ongoing series. . . Possibly)

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I’ve been walking to keep somewhat sane my entire life, but it only occurred to me to formalize these walks when things began to feel very distinctly insane.  We all need some structure, right?  About a year into my post-graduate underemployment spell—which is now my established status quo—I decided it might be worth the tradeoff in grocery money to splurge on gas once a month and treat myself to a day out.  Given that underemployment and languor are now officially part of my life, I concluded that a monthly day off from brooding in my rented room about my existential dilemma is necessary for sanity maintenance and in turn survival.  That is, I began to realize that if I were to continue to maintain an uninterrupted lifestyle of a nocturnal recluse for much longer, I would soon sink into an irreversible depressive coma, my brain would completely atrophy, and I would become a zombie catatonic idgit before my thirtieth birthday.  Or, at least, I’d go from being only half crazy to being totally crazy; of this I am certain.   Continue reading