Summer Existentialism

Mid-summer; hot, humid days separated by warm nights; open windows, breezes, outdoor smells.

Conjugate tenses: am weary, was weary, have been weary. There are things to do and no reason to do them. I lie prone upon my bed with a lassitude that comes from prolonged ennui. I study the open window shaded by slightly parted Venetian blinds. I tell myself I should get up, be productive, but I get lost in the drone of an insect: grasshopper, locust, cicada maybe. No, cicadas are old news; they’re gone now, are they not? Gone into their underground hidey-holes to spend years before peeking their antennae out once more to see if the world still carries onward. Lucky cicadas, cocooned in darkness. The drone swells and fades to silence. Swells once more, lingers, fades again. Over and over the sound fills my ears, fades, repeats, until I lose awareness of it. Be productive? And the point would be…? Have had, had had, would have had. My mind wanders to once beckoning paths, now closed, terminated, not with the revelation of a door slammed shut, but ever so gently, like hands on a clock, like twilight fading imperceptibly towards darkness, like a very long screw being slowly twisted. There is no future for me; there is only present.

I sigh. It was always thus.

After a while I get up. I go to my garage. I locate grass shears, and I kneel and clip the long strands of wiregrass infringing upon the border of the apron. It is hot. I sweep the cuttings and put them into my trash can. I haul a few items from the garage that might be sellable and set them on the apron so I can photograph them. I tell myself that one day I will put these things on an Internet auction site. Or possibly I will do nothing and allow them to become someone else’s problem. Both options have merit. Soon I am sweating and thinking, “Who needs this?” I’m losing motivation rapidly. I put everything away and go into my house, close the windows, and turn on the a/c. The a/c is set to hold the temperature at 79°. A jar of coconut oil sits on my kitchen counter. Coconut oil melts at 76°; below that temperature, a jar of coconut oil looks like a jar of paraffin. Unscrew the lid and look inside; touch it, it’s like candle wax: one almost expects to find a wick in the center. But in the summer, in my house, day or night, a jar of coconut oil always looks like a jar of water, its oily goodness never getting cool enough to congeal.

The day inches forward, the hours become filled with those small bits of here-and-now that happen when we’re not looking, not paying attention. What did I do today? I wonder if I was even conscious. No, of course I wasn’t. How else could a whole day slip past me unnoticed, to join all the other unremarkable days that litter my recent past?

Now twilight has fallen, astronomically, meteorologically, metaphorically. I go for a walk. The air is still; nothing moves except me. The only sound I hear is the rhythmic slap of my sandals on concrete. I feel the jolt of each step. Here and there I see someone sitting on his front porch, on her front porch. I see a woman sitting and looking my way. I see an old man sitting in his chair; he’s looking my way, too. I don’t take it personally – they’re looking at me because I’m the only movement in their field of vision. It’s funny how we tune out what doesn’t move.

I arrive back home. The outside temperature is comfortable, so I turn off the a/c and open a window in front and another window in the back, in my bedroom. I check the outside temperature and see it’s 81° – heat index 85°.

I ate a small serving of spinach lasagna before my walk. It left an empty spot that now craves a snack: bread smeared with peanut butter and honey. I eat my snack food, drink a half dozen swallows of milk straight from the bottle, return the bottle to the fridge. Day is done. What will tomorrow be like? I already know: it will be like today. Like yesterday. Like the day before yesterday and the day before that.

I was wrong. It was not always thus.

Is there anything on television? No. There’s never anything on television. How can anyone watch the fare TV serves up these days? Well, I can always write a blog post. I can write about what I did today. Except, I did nothing. I have nothing to say, nothing to write.

It is Tuesday, was Tuesday, now it’s Tuesday night. There was a time when I’d sit at a neighborhood bar and enjoy the ambience, maybe talk for a while with another bar patron. You can meet some interesting people at a bar, and I mean interesting in a good way. But that was yarns ago, when I had a semblance of a life. At least, enough of a semblance to fool the average acquaintance who didn’t look too closely.

It’s time for bed, time for my routine: brush, floss, rinse. Sometimes, for a while, I’ll lie in bed and ponder my existence. Sometimes, for a while, I’ll lie in bed and try hard not to ponder my existence. I long ago lost the ability to sleep well. Now, I often lie awake in the dark until false dawn lightens my window. Or I may sleep for two hours, then lie awake the rest of the night. Or I may sleep for forty-five minutes. It’s a special kind of torture: lying in the darkness for hours, waiting for the sun to rise. My doctor prescribed sleeping pills for me, and for a while they worked. Now they don’t. But I still have some, and I have something else – a mostly-killed bottle of vodka under the kitchen sink. Enough remains to kick-start those sleeping pills.

I wonder if I’ll sleep tonight. Yes, I think I will.