Hey. Dog. Fuck you, Black Dog.

It's about 8:40 Pm on Thursday when everything grinds to a halt. I turn off the CNN feed, close the chat window with JediSchoolDropout, lean back in my (her) chair, and realize I have no desire to go anywhere or do anything, and no idea what I would do, anyways. I should go back in to work, and finish emptying my desk, but even contemplating the thought is strange. ..And then what? Is all I can think, overwhelmed, numb. High school led to university, first degree led to second major, led to third degree, led to Japan led to Library School led to L, led to this job led to heartbreak led to unemployment and to brick wall, sometime in the next week.

Thirty Nine and I can go anywhere, do anything. But the problem with my generation has never been an inability to make choices or recognize the necessity: it has been that we are expected to choose in a game of 52 card monte. As Bruce once said, the problem isn't that we need to pick a door and go through it: the problem is that there are a hundred doors, they open and close at random, and many - maybe even most - have brick walls behind them. Case in point. Nineteen years of my life have brought me through the pachinko machine to this point.

I need to get up, do something. Everything tiny thing is frustrating. I still can't find my phone, the cat wants attention, I can''t even do laundry because some stupid cow has abandoned loads in all three machines. HOw is it Thursday? I have no idea. I recognize the inner brittle feeling, know I need to move, to do something. Alll I can think to do is drive, get some of my favorite Chinese takeout. I am medicating with food but I need to go. The gym is already closed. Knight street and the bridge are wall to wall with construction for miles, so I have to detour absurd lengths to go via Oak. I cannot think of what I did this week. How is it Thursday? I force myself to reconstruct it.

Tuesday I sang with Phantom and the gang at the Jupiter, seems job losses are imminent for a lot of our community. Did okay with Something About You and Round Here, too flat and tired by the time I did Side. Wednesday...Wednesday was the munch, only four of us, Shibbari and the host were deep in BDSM philosophy again. Dropped by Jedi's, the two of us commiserating, our conversation rich, expansive. Human history is clear to us, but what to do about it, another matter. Today the fired VP development, a thoroughly decent man, bought me coffee and suggested the time was to move fast, grab what I could, and introspect later. Bird in the Hand, and all. Start getting prospects in the hopper. SportsTalk on the radio, I think of Fireworks,

She said she didn't give a fuck-a-bo-ut hockey, I never heard anyone say that before.

Home, the cat buzzes around me in a quantum shell , curious about my day-olds and fried beancurd and mushrooms, and I wonder when my life became a William Gibson novel, Bulgarian pop music, planetary infonet, and all. But no email from assassins in mirrorshades with a job offer. The analysis from some distant galaxy confirms my suspicions, Palin did okay, but Biden won, The adults are back at last, far, far too late. Sink exhausted into the couch, let Jon Stewart take me out. Sleep helps, food helps. Laundry will help, eventually. Morrison's Invisibles in my mind, the clarity that comes with the gun in the mouth, the inevitable arrived at last as it always did and always will.

I know the secret of magic.
There is only one day.
There is only ever one day, and it is today,
The day of nine dogs, the day of illusions.
Today will always be the day of nine dogs.

Do you understand now?