As it turns out, she was okay, which is what really matters.

It's been a rather depressing day, though.

And I'm not even reacting to the death of Jerry Orbach yet.

Crapola behind the cut.

Over the course of today, I've managed to exhaust my entire repertoire of things I do when I desperately want to fix or help something that I'm prohibited from doing anything about.

I did a song last night, so I'm kind of burned out on that, plus I can't make as much noise today, and I'm being emotional enough that my music tinkerings would be atonal jackhammering to anyone that heard the actual process. TRB songs are one of those things like sausage, where regardless of your feeling on the end product, you probably don't want to see the manufacturing process.

I slept a lot today to try and distract my mind. I definitely have a point where I can sleep no longer, though, and I hit that surprisingly early today.

Barring writing, which I was left with in the end, this left precious few ways for me to get my brain to stop its round-and-round: getting really drunk, going driving aimlessly, or punishing my lungs with harsh little wuss cigars. I didn't want to get drunk, because I might've been called upon to go somewhere, and I didn't have any of those cigars. So, I went driving. And picked some of those damn things up on the way.

I went on one of my typical Patrick historical-places mini-tour, getting out in various places to wander around thinking and sucking ash.

There were a couple places I considered going, and I'm really glad I didn't. I went to some of the old full-moon places, and added to the halls of memory, mainly beefing up the bitter wing while reminiscing on the sweet.

Nothing quite enhances the sting of helplessness than a tendency to visit the same places over and over when you feel that way - not only reassuring yourself that it's happened before, but that you haven't really found a better way of coping. Thanks a lot, brain.

But, I drove, and drove, and drove some more, finding a place where the moonlight perfectly lit up the finger writing on my windshield, like that piece of paper in The Hobbit. It was here, the Rockbridge Swim Club, where, years ago, I sat and watched planes fly overhead, on a very special February Sunday. A week after that I was picked up there by some friends, who helped me steal a sign from the gate. Tonight, nearly 8 years hence, I reached into my jacket pocket to return the lighter, and was stabbed by a name tag that does not belong to me. I took this, combined with the windshield thing, as a sign that I was being incredibly stupid, and went home. At the least, the experience got me closer to the notion that things would be okay, and that I was just a god damned moron.

I'm still pretty much out of things to try, except writing. Looking over this, I can't say that looks too promising in terms of quality, but that's the next thing I try. And I still haven't given a real holiday weekend recap. I simply don't feel much like it right now.

Come to think of it, this whole entry seems rather drama queenish.

It's just been a rough day.

Or, at least, I've made myself feel like it has been. It's hard for me to tell which it is at this moment.

Anyway, right now I'm going to try to write a comedy sketch that will probably never see the light of day.

I leave you with a bit of a song that played on endless loop in my brain through my unusually music-less driving binge-

I write the B-sides
That make a small portion of the world cry
I like the seaside
And singing songs that make you not want to die

-- eels, I write the B-sides

[ohne deine sonne ist kein tag]