Gollum

People write, but I don't respond.  I ignore opportunities to show my "work."  Days pass in a vocational haze.  I can't believe it has been four years since the last Obama campaign.  What have I done?  Become a Gollum, I guess, a solitary, haunted creature.  The illusion of life is all about me.  I dwell in the ravages of existence.

And still I post, a tone-deaf troubadour without a cup, a dancer without a song, the subtleties I take for genius too minute.

I received an email from an old friend.  I once would have been happy to hear from her, but that was a long while ago.  Now the tie is unknotted.  She wants to "catch up," but I have no taste for that.  Other's do it, I know.  After long interludes of silence, they are thrilled to hear from some old friend.  They seem to understand that life takes you in different directions, that old paths get overgrown, and then, one day, some memory brings them back.

I can't do it.  I'd rather leave them where they lay.

I have many meeting with supervisors at the factory today, group meetings where I hope I can melt into the background.  I know that if I open my mouth, it will not be to agree.  I'd prefer to stay away.  I wish I were well off and could spend the day lying on the couch while some untamed, tempestuous woman played music for me without speaking.  "Play the Tarantula song," I would command.  "Play it fast and loud."