Jacob Lawrence, "Wounded Man," 1968
Jacob Lawrence, Wounded Man (1968)
Can a Game Be Literature?

Mark's Pages

January 9, 2004:


Clenched fists, and the world behind smoking eyeballs is red and bruise-colored.

Pacing, saying I will not be treated this way. Then the bitter laugh when you realize you've done this before. It was utterly futile, as it is now. Knowing so merely makes you sputter.

Destructiveness. Passionate emails, based on the stupid and self-lacerating premiss that you're serious about withdrawal. As if.

Sleeplessness. 48 hours in this case. Once upon a time it was weeks at a stretch, until you self-medicated to slow your speeding brain. This is nothing. Yet you realize with the resonance of insight that fatigue like this is itself the fuel of your fury.

Release. When it passes it's like the calm after orgasm. Unfortunately there's real damage to mend, if you can, maybe more like the calm after hurricane. Leaving you embarrassed, yet nevertheless calm.

Irony. This is what it took to regain your equilibrium, after three or four weeks struggling with rejection and pain.

Pray it lasts.