I broke a lamp today, and then found myself at The Bottom.
It was a really good vintage lamp, really pretty, tall, made outta amber glass, and I liked it a lot. But I caught the cord or something and pulled it down off the counter and smashed it on the tiles in my bathroom. It made a terrible noise. The breaking lightbulb made a small explosion. I saw it all happening as it happened and I screamed. Then I screamed again, and I cried.
My lamp was in pieces on the floor. I'd ruined it. It was gone. I'd lost another beautiful thing.
So I lay down on my back on the rug and had a good weeping. I wept myself in a circle until I started laughing again. Then I lit a cigarette, and stopped giving a fuck.
See, I'd felt like I was going to break something for some time now. I just didn't know what it was going to be. The anticipation had been killing me. In a way, breaking the lamp broke the tension. And now the breaking was over, so all that was left to do was clean up.
Back in the days when I was living in a van, it was fun to lay down with a jug-o-wine on the full-sized mattress in back, fall asleep surrounded by a ukulele, a banjo, an accordion, my banjolele, a washboard, and one or two guitars; maybe someone would be playing an instrument on the single bed and two people would be singing in the front, but either way we were moving forward and I'd wake up somewhere else, in a new place at a new time. Like magic! Or physics. = the same thing.
But when there is no van involved, and no jug-o-wine either, that phenomenon is cause for concern.
I lost almost the entire month of February. Don't know where that went. I know my birthday happened in there at some point, but barely remember anything except weeping into a margarita and doing my laundry. It's good to have everything be still again.
It's good to find the quiet.