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