Without Words

It’s the same old story. We’ve been working our tails off. I’ve lost count of how many weekends we’ve worked through or how many hours I put in through the course of a work day. We’re working like sweatshop slaves.

That’s not the whole story. I have been too sad for words. I just can’t manage any more loss and I can’t articulate the last one. Beyond that, I don’t have anything to say that would be worth hearing or anything to write that would be worth reading.

Oddly, the monotony of my work is comforting. I found an interesting study in the debate over voluntary vs involuntary addiction. I’m still happily married. My remaining siblings, extended family, quasi relatives, politics, and the general state affairs continues to inspire exasperation. I bought a bundt pan, which means I made a cake, that I may, or may not, have had more than my fair share of. An old acquaintance from a distant life sent me a note, causing me to feel happy at the post office.

Happy at the Post Office, that could be used in a variety of applications for a bunch of misbehaving characters mailing unauthorized things- blackmail notes, ransom notes for underwear that’s been stolen from clotheslines, substances that permanently ruin the recipients over-priced outfit and manicure, cryptic one word letters that arrive in random order to form an unsettling message. Perhaps two of the characters would meet in line at the post office, over time, and begin an awkward, passionless affair that was something to do to alleviate the boredom of their otherwise meaningless existances. Maybe the postmaster would witness one of his difficult employees the victim of a random act of violence due to long lines and slow service; the customer slaps the employee upside the head causing a persistent ringing in the ears resulting in the employee’s disability leave thereby solving a difficult personnel problem for the postmaster. Happy at the Post Office has potential but right now I don’t have the energy or the inclination. Maybe later. Wishing all of you happiness at the post office or anywhere else you happen to be.

About elroyjones

Married, no children, responsibly self-directed, living happily.
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15 Responses to Without Words

  1. El Guapo says:

    Hmm…the Post Office is not where I’d think to look for happiness.
    My mistake, I guess…

    Happiness to you, wherever you go.

  2. nice to see your words on my screen 🙂

  3. We seem to be in similar places … this last loss threw me for a real loop. I love the post office as a place for potential happiness or … not. I believe it was Eudora Welty who wrote, “Why I Live at the PO.” Good to see you here again.

    • elroyjones says:

      There seems to be a lot of it going around, Teresa. Jules’ situation is also very disturbing. I’ve read Eudora Welty but never “Why I Live at the PO”, I’ll look for it. I suspect there’s a lot going on at the post office, lots of subliminal drama. I’m pleased to hear from you and hope to return here when I have something worth saying. In the meantime, I hope you regain the part of you that was thrown for a loop in the most recent loss.

  4. umm… I hope things turn around… the bundt pan might be a good start… and try to keep your picture off the post office wall…

    • elroyjones says:

      A word of advice, add a sprinkle of cinnamon to chocolate cake and the taste is enhanced a thousand times-unless, of course, you don’t care for cinnamon.
      The post office should hang my picture up. I buy stamps and spend a lot of time there, they should acknowledge my patronage. I think I’ll get some head shots taken and send them off. Maybe I can start a Patron of the Month movement, ha!

  5. maesprose says:

    It’s good you found a moment of happiness in the Post Office. A strange place indeed. I’ve never lost a sibling and can only imagine the sadness you must be feeling. Virtual hugs as that seems to be all that I have to offer.

    • elroyjones says:

      I think, Mae, that this loss is very different because Joe didn’t accept paralysis, addiction, or the likelihood of his own death. The statistic for quad mortality is 7 years from the date of injury. He died 6.25 years after his injury.
      My brother, Brian, died from opportunistic diseases as the result of AIDS, which came to him via IV drug use. He was a junkie. He did not apologize for it. He accepted his addiction and came to reconcile his own impending death. It was a very different experience. I was heartbroken then too but I did not feel unhappy. He told me once that he lived on the street because he liked to be free and he meant it.
      Brian allowed us to participate in a graceful exit that was honest and peaceful. Joe left carnage in his wake and the sad truth that he did not live the life he loved.
      Thanks for the hugs.

  6. John says:

    I’m sorry for your loss … there really does come a time when you just feel like you cannot possibly endure any more loss … sadly, we can’t stop it. Loss keeps happening, in one form or another …

    Here’s a hug from CO, and I hope that it gives you a bit of strength to take another step through another day….

    As for the post office story … I think we should do a writing project about it … we could take turns!

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