BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

hello ...

While it is an extremely pleasant 68° in my office today, making me thankful for our nuclear-driven high-tech First World society, I am dying from a sinus headache. I don't know WHAT causes these (as opposed to run-of-the-mill congestion), but they'll start with sinus pressure (which totally ignores the antihisthamines I take for it), then erupts into a near-migraine-like headache (which likewise ignores the Excedrin). Bleh. I hate "doubling up" on the meds (sometimes Comtrex works when the antihisthamine doesn't and sometimes Ibruprophin works when the Excedrin doesn't), but I'm leaning in that direction just to be able to get some stuff done here. I could, of course, just go back to bed until it is time to pick up Daughter #1 ... but all of my Puritan ancestors would be spinning in their graves from the taint of Sloth.

I actually wrote a poem yesterday. Yes, amazingly, the thing behind the cut below is a NEW bit of writing! I went over yesterday evening to get Daughter #1 from her play rehearsal (tonight is their show, repeating tomorrow afternoon), and had not been aware that they were going to be going late. So, I had a half hour or so to kill, and figured "what the heck!" and pulled out my ittybitty notebook and scrawled this out.

                    IN PANIC'S FRAME

                    mind's detritus
                    strewn, flung,
                    filling spaces
                    on mental planes;
                    we can not navigate
                    a path through here,
                    we stumble,
                    fall and fail
                    swirling mists
                    hide deceits,
                    cloaking sheets
                    of pouring rain
                    disguise the cliffs
                    that voyagers might crash
                    or plummet to their death
                    all unawares
                    shell on shell,
                    of madness formed,
                    the nightmare
                    without waking;
                    echoing insanity
                    cage to cage,
                    terror to terror,
                    every time we're freed
                    in some mass,
                    some viscous void
                    swallowing all meaning,
                    dampening intent;
                    we run without motion,
                    we reach without touch,
                    no action, no stillness,
                    in panic's frame
                    and so, it's done,
                    this empty thing,
                    the dance of life
                    so dark and dire,
                    all broken dreams
                    and hollow hopes,
                    twisted visions,
                    and delusional beliefs

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2004 by Brendan Tripp


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