Worked on this yesterday. While #LOSTATSEA = titled: 679 days later...
Der chill is back. AND the hibernation has been in full effect. The sun has been shortchanging our days. As if we haven’t spent enough time at home lately. The lions, tigers and bears are less on prowl and just as terrified being locked in our bedroom closets as we aspire to navigate the darkness ahead. Gone are the days of yore: waiting and wandering out for a weeknight game- and instead the fatigue settles in sooner...as my heliotropic tendencies have begun to show weakness too in broad daylight. Especially post mid-day.
Late nights + butt- early mornings = dozing quickly after lunch? Not enough sunshine to prevent moral scurvy, the fits of narcolepsy and endless accidental naps.
The denial of sleepiness started as a toddler; wanting to carry on despite those anchor-like eyelids and those earthquake-like nods that always shook me. Never ready to go to bed and wanting to stay up late with the adults to watch the boob tube, simply convinced I was one, yet the older I get, the more skeptical I am of having progeriatric tendencies as some might famously know as “aging backwards” and that certain Benjamin Button disease. All the arrows of this inevitable restlessness since the onset of this pandemic seem to indicate so, but also self-prognosing these days to be safe.
Flashback to the 80's- Falling asleep on the couch ... and wanting my MTV...
I recall watching my grandpa nod off with his head tilted back and mouth open snoring on the living room couch as a 5 year old. Meanwhile my high school Precalculus teacher whom I strongly despised- was naturally a bit slow- but so was I too after lunch. She was nice about it the first time i dozed off, shortly thereafter she seemed to know EXACTLY WHEN to wake me up (call on me). AND while I NEVER cared the value of sin and cosin, or have been a person for #s, the old me still insists there's just way too many complexities, too many signs around us to care too much about over-calculating. BUT seriously I checked today, and it's been 679 days since our official lockdown circa 3/22/2020. AND FYI the chronic fatigue is now a fact of life, and I'm actually kind of tired of myself too.
Sleep? I've never slept soooo much as I have these past 2 years. Quality trumps quantity. Broken, inconsistent, hourless, biorhythms buried into the hourglass. The wrath of a quicksand pillow and black hole blanket of pandemia. I have never studied so many nooks and crannies of my bed and officially experienced so many crash episodes. So many layers to reality between the sheets. Sure I sleepwalk in my waking hours around the house, and even roll in and out of sleep and wake but these days it's all appears more rollercoaster. BUT still proudly making my bed daily to wake with a straight head and get the ball in motion. BUT is this <<great recalibrator>> STILL really ongoing? Suddenly I feel the need to be a novelist- if not serial ramblist.
Father Time's Finale: Infinite Reflection 2/2022 (Winter's Depress)
Our anticlimactic days have been a slow motion matrix-frozen blur. Even yesterday's Saturday morning dash to the pitch and very sad little sliver of neglected greens in hopes of glimpsing sunshine laughs and familiar faces to pretend it’s all okay if but for a few hours was called OFF! I suppose there's a first for everything, BUT many of us were left in a devastated tbd state of mourning. Like a funeral you couldn't attend. Or perhaps could have, but without your orchestra, what was the point? I guess I somehow had to miss out on my warrior training and inner team practice. Still trying to channel patience.
My world otherwise seems a bit lost in translation these days, but between the extremes of weather, it- much like NYC is always some sort of strange crapshoot- and anything can turn upside down in mere seconds. I don't get it.
STILL coming to terms with a MISSED YESTERDAY, when we were ALL so ready to drop the week's baggage like an atomic bomb by our usual Saturday sidelines for a vitamin Dance on the greens and hope to leave with visions of a pot o gold and luck on the horizon-- or a little extra pocket lephrechaun chutzpah cash in da pocket. Instead, today Im listening to the anxious scrape of snow shovels against the concrete sidewalks of our icy jungle, and that flapping portable heater hum forcing undercover status. The cabin fever is popping into the yard 4-D and blinded by that blanket of snow so tabula rasa here we go. )o;
WHEN staying close to shore does NOT jive with my biorhythms-the hermitude means my thoughts are inching into my head space- and a tad overly cerebral. Must sweat it off somehow? Yeah been ignoring my pissed hamstring for 3 months now so okay making history here-our cancelled game means being snowed in and dialed into frozen space. And even time. So upping the volume on the indoor playlist disco-stylee, and muting my phone so that I can pretend some sort of imaginary Sunday bulletproof status.
I really want to stop pressing replay in my head, and focus more on playing once again- being steps ahead, and once I"m better, getting back out there and comfortable again to do my thang. Whatever the heck that is . BUT whaddaya know- here we are wiping out our ambitions for yet another day and even echoing yesterday's stay at home inevitable weather mandate. Though we're all feeling years into a marathon of messages in a bottle, or like a lost ship at sea, thinking today we should maximize our convenient pause, and focus on pressing "play", and channel the echo of that one wistful word I hope we hear everywhere- and for 2022:
NEXT...
#lostatsea #fishouttawater #winterhibernation #noeraserneeded #snowmageddon2022 #sheisternycweather #WTF
https://open.spotify.com/track/3357DDeO0lAVcAXfd0USz4?si=9f1dbd51de4b49ea
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