Bitch Slap the Blues

Damn.  I guess it is time to face the depression.
For days I have tried to bury myself
in 84 hours of the Sopranos from start to finish.
All the while, I push the blackness away,
but it keeps creeping in
 and bringing its old friend, the blues.  Damn.

It is a wonderful rainy day
with a light rain and soft light
giving everything sort of a glow.
In the background and sometimes
 in the foreground
 as my attention focuses here and then there,
 is Etta James and Dorothy Smith
and Big Maybelle singing the blues. 
Ah, what a perfect day for the blues.

I suppose I am set to wallow in it for a bit.
I have tried to break its spell
but it is like a fine net holding me down.
I make lists of things to do;
planning out each day
with certain tasks;
then I sit it aside and wait.
Wait for something to happen. 
I know I should get out of this room
and break this spell, but . . .
Of course depression has buts.
But it is raining. 
But if I go out I will spend money
and I don’t want to spend money.
But where to go?
What to do? 

I keep trying to think of a project to do;
to jump into with all the zeal that I usually drives me. 
None appear.
None appeal. 
And I have so many things
to do or that I could be doing. 
But nothing pulls me from this mire. 

Hmmm….  This depression should have a name. 
It already has a color
and a thousand songs. 
Maybe having a name
would make it not quite so nebulous; not so ethereal. 
With a name, maybe it would be more real
and I could stand up and slap the shit out of it. 
Bitch slap the blues. . .

Michael Mathews
June 12, 2014
In the RV
1:33 PM Thursday