Driving down the road, I’m hearing “Music and the Mirror” in my head because I just started talking about A Chorus Line with my daughter and her friend, who were auditioning for a show, to be in the chorus line. Appropriate?
I watched some of an ancient horribly recorded black and white original Broadway cast bootleg, and then the Tony Awards of “I Hope I Get It”. Then rolled into a video of “Music and the Mirror”, and then another one. And then one with Sandy Duncan doing a silly bit and then dancing.
So I’ve dropped off the kid, and I’m coming back. Oh there’s a Tesla. “All I ever needed ….”. What about quantum physics. I need to think about my wife and what I can do for her. Oh I need new tires and I got to do that. Oh I got to order that Enovid since I took Trent’s vials of it. Fucking COVID. “…and the chance to dance.”. Trombones. How’s Addison doing? About work. Miona is pronounced My-Ona. Okay. Was it okay to say that the service I’m going to be working on is a “monster”. Did they appreciate that labeling or were they shocked? What was that look on their faces across the Zoom world? About that, was I told incorrect information about it, or did Michael and Jeremy actually not observe the depth and complexity of FraudNet. Why didn’t I get a better more solid answer? The first thing Miona said was that the service is actually like the previous service. This is the opposite of what I’ve been led to believe. But wait, I was needing a time to sit and think about what AI means, and how I can actually think about what I can do with it. But there’s no time. Why am I so distracted? How can I ever expect to get anything done? How do people do more than just thrash their way through life. Look at that kid happily riding his eBike to high school. Does he know what’s ahead? How am I supposed to decide what to do with my time? How can I choose? There are so many choices. Each is a universe. What about my own “businesses” or projects I’ve gotten 90% done that have withered, or slipped into the zone of too old to upgrade without more work or time than I have? Goddammit the fucking washing machine is lopsided and now the clothes aren’t going to spin. Fuck.
It turns out getting the opportunity to stop, sit down, and just start typing, is yet another thing I will passively avoid by finding something else that happens to attract my interest. And besides. It’s mostly not that I’ve got this one huge thing burning in my chest screaming to get out that I must write, except EVERYTHING… I’ve just distracted. Damn fucking Teslas. Musk. Why, every time I see a Tesla does it start another spinning process in my head? “…dance for youuuuuu…”.
There’s Luna sitting next to me looking proudly ahead. Is she a passenger in a body? What’s behind those eyes? She’s happy to see Jennifer when she comes out of the bedroom, mask on as the Paxlovid tries to rid her of the vile plague once again. What about the Ritalin? Should I crank it up and see? I’m baby stepping it. Am I always babystepping? Even if the slope looks very steep, perhaps it’s actually in my comfort zone, unlike when Trent looks at the same thing with terror. With my weakened much older legs that recently failed just damn ice skating such that I crashed on the ice, skidded across it, and slammed into the wall, would I now be afraid to hit that slope? How much fucking protien do I need? Why on top of all the damn things I want to do must I now practice the religion of eating right, exercising, protecting myself, meditating, drugging, therapizing, and getting enough sleep?
When/where is the place where somehow this doesn’t all seem like I’m flying by the seat of my pants? Is it the voices? Is it that I’ve got sounds and words and thoughts all flying at me? Do I have to ask if this is normal as I consider upping my ADHD doses? What am I now without the pills? Am I anything at all or just doing what was destined to be done? Yeah, back to quantum physics. Yet to be answered. Free will and all. For now we’ll assume it exists or at least that I can somehow choose forks of many worlds somehow by being near them.
Is my conscious intentional moving of my fingers on the keyboard actually an observation? Ah. Not going to get into it until I spend $92 on that fucking book. Goddamn. $92 bucks? And why? What do I get from it? It’s not like somehow I’m going to be able to fly like Wendy and Peter. Or pass through a wall by thinking my atoms apart.
What I really want is to somehow not feel like everything is either exhaustion or panic with hardly enough information to be comfortable or feel as if I’m in charge. It’s a cacophony of senses and thoughts. Goddam fucking washing machine banging so loudly to jar me and scare the dog…
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