Whatta day

It was such a simple message, would've made a clean start to a tidy day.


I thought I was coming here to post one sentence. But that was before computer madness dumped its neural map of body parts. Before I ran to my closet to find that pad of paper resorted to nowadays only in extremis. (It takes an extreme state of mind, writing with my left hand.) That in its own turn was before decision-making, then astonishment that I could not go online.


I must've thought resolution within meant Resolution Without.








I listened to music, tons. All old. All new to me. That had not been bargained on.

Disbelief.

Replayed some. Every bit led me down halls decorated with that same set of posters and rows of brand new rooms.

Tried again to post my message. Nothing. Now it doesn't say these lines are down, it says I have no lines at all.

WHAT KIND OF MACABRE SENSE OF HUMOR CAN THIS BE?

My post remained simple. Not even four words, by this time. Then my son took things in hand, began to teach himself Linux. Something had to be done. Me, I went to bed. This made me feel like a body taking up space: I needed to DO something.


Got up, tried my best friend again (she'd thought she might visit tonight).

Voicemail.

Cell, now:

No answer.

I began to give up. A pointless exercise in an illusory independence (but don't tell me that).

More contortions, countless ineffective dial-ups, more voicemails ~even some left in Wolf. (I hope to God she's alone when she plays those ones.)


In the end, I'd twisted myself into a miserable coil of frustration. And all I'd had to do was wait a little while. (But like I saId, don't ever try to tell me that.) The Linux did prevail, or the third reboot ~we'll never know which~ and I can post my message.

It really would've looked much better all by itself, early morning, on a pristine page, a clean start to a tidy day: