My weekend? Great. Sure. I did nothing. Nope, nothing.

Friday I left the office, went to the gymnatorium to push things and also pull them and just generally move them around. Then, satisfied with my dumb movery, I went home, bathed, and stared at the wall.

Saturday I awoke from Friday night’s sleep, then later went back to bed, at night. Between waking and sleep was “day.” Eating was involved. Also bathing. Perhaps some reading—who can be sure. A little thinking, breathing, more staring.  

Sunday I woke up again, ate again, bathed again, went for a run through the city to look at all the people leading lives and not, trying to run myself ragged and see how much it would take for me to give up the ghost, as in a ghost-giving kind of mood was I, and then it suddenly somehow turned eveningtide again, whereupon it became necessary to return to bed so the pain would go away and I could slumber like old Rip till all this shit passed and I’d fall into a future where I wouldn’t have to be me anymore and could just be Me.

But then this fine ante meridiem I was jarred from my sub-semi-sort-of-conscious state by a horrible little device known in some circles as a “будильник,” and in others, I’m told, as an “alarm clock.” I prefer будильник because it looks the part. Whatever you call it, the sole function of this apparatus, far as I can tell, seems to be getting me out of bed several hours too early so I can arrive here late and have you ask me how my fucking weekend was. It was great. Talk to you next Monday. If I haven’t by then destroyed my будильник.

I’m kidding, c’mon. Don’t look at me like that. Seriously, it was fine. Got outside a little bit. Went scuba-diving, Maldives, yeah. Yeah, about a day of travel each way. I know, doesn’t leave much. Wore my scuba gear on the plane to save time. Got about thirteen minutes of splashy. Brought back a napkin full of sand, though. I don’t know, didn’t have a plastic bag. How was yours. Good? Good. Oh did you? Sounds fun. Uh huh. Yeah. Never been there. Oh really? That’s funny. Yeah. Mm hmm. Me too. Haha. Good, I’m glad. Huh. Ok, yeah, well it’s Monday. Yes, the weather—it’s weather. Traffic, I know. A lot of cars, moving at slow speeds very close together, sometimes not moving at all, and the honking and such. Probably the weather, yeah. Here we are, yep. Is what it is. Yes, the dream. Living it. Right. What? Oh those? Those are just scratches from where I started to try to kill myself in the parking garage but didn’t have the intestinal fortitude—what?—oh, guts, the guts to do it right. And I would’ve been late for the meeting. I don’t know which one. The meeting. But yeah, could be worse, there’s always next weekend. 

5 thoughts on “how

    1. I thank you very kindly, that’s lovely to hear. And your description is spot on. Made me think: I don’t often talk about how I go about this whole writing thing, as if I’m afraid I’ll become too conscious of what I’m doing and ruin it with key words and explanations. I’d rather hear what someone else thinks, what you think, so thank you for speaking right to it. It’s appreciated both as a personal kindness and as a bit of a relief.

      Liked by 2 people

  1. Oh, the beauty of small talk, taught early in the school. Draw a picture of something you did over summer. Draw a picture of your family arguing over a dead carp at Christmas. Over. PS: it’s carp for Christmas in the Czech Republic (deep fried, it’s gross, but I hate fish, so this is subjective and it might actually taste good), PS2: your writing is excellent, as usual, and very rich visually, if you know what I mean

    Liked by 2 people

    1. I do know what you mean and I thank you very much, especially for the visual of familial quarrels over dead Christmas carp. And for engaging me in anything but small talk. Draw a picture of a meaningful conversation. Make an etching of an idea. Paint a mural of the subjectivities of fish-loathing. Done and done and done.

      Liked by 2 people

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.