No Time

H asks if I am really okay.

When I look inside, I only find Gertrude Stein’s Oakland: There is no there, there.

So I say, Yup. I’m fine. Just tired.

I am not lying. I just have no words. None describe it. And if I hazard a few syllable to sketch out the nothingness, I risk being chronic complainer. A whiner.

But it’s obvious I’m unwell. Or teetering, leaning toward it.

Even when she lays down naked next to me in the coolness of open night windows (breathing with summer moonlight), I am still and dreamless. Once I would’ve been stretching with desire in a cheap and useless attempt to show restraint and politeness. Now I just want to sleep. And I drift off quickly.

I think about going to the skinny therapist who sometimes wonder about how she finds any pleasure, but I know what she’ll ask: When was the last time you went to a meeting?

We all know the answer to that — even if it was an hour ago, it is not recent enough.

Yes, it’s a good answer, but it is not the right answer.

And maybe that’s the problem.

There is no right answer.

So go and make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the hope that jam and Skippy will solve this spiritual crisis.