The Youngish and the Restless

So restless. Some kind of metaphysical pull that is manifesting as a phantom itch in my fifth limb and skritch in my second heart. It's not something I have forgotten to do, some bill left to languish in one of my languishing bill piles, it's not a task. It's not work. Something is coming.

Last night I dreamt I was dying of cancer and the nurse had given me a drug in hospice and it was good, I was pain free and filled with an unreckoning of regret. I woke up at four in the morning, eyes gauzy with dream and felt for myself, unfamiliar beneath my own fingers, hunted by my night wanderings, wondering as I came to consciousness if I had become an aunt yet. I think it's time for a physical.

I did become an aunt today, not until late morning, as I was sitting at my desk trying to fend off the prickly pink anemone tendrils of restlessness driving me to distraction, so I arranged and rearranged piles of paperwork, abjectly watched the surge in the market, waited for my brother to call.

Welcome to the world young fellow, it's a strange and wondrous place. I intend to spoil you rotten, brother says you look deep, I think you look like a rather wise turtle.

And then I visited with friends, and then I picked up my brother's dog and then I was slightly miffed that I missed Lost and then I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine and tried to plot the origins of this restlessness. The moon is half full but that is no help, it could be all the greening new things and new life that buds and sprouts, the crocus and iris and the daffodil-dillys weeks away from bloom. Could be the economy, could be paucity of money in my bank account, but it's not that either. Couldn't be the president.

I am going to shoot guns with a bunch of dudes tomorrow night, I am hoping that will help. But it's not aggression, though the semblance of violence might be a temporary fix - that is if I don't have a liberal shit fit - since I am (or was) a card carrying Californian-New Yorker-reading spawn of dope smoking hippies, and yet the thought of shooting skeet appeals to my want, yea need, to blow some shit up. Have the bruise on my shoulder to show for all those shattered clay pigeons. Some proof of life. Some tangible consequence.

It's not so much the absence of desire, it's more like an abscess of desire. I know exactly what it is that plagues me. I am ready to be heartbroken again.