ringing ringing

On Sunday mornings I can hear the church bells, different peals from different churches around the neighborhood, at slightly different times; I don't know what they signal, whether it's church beginning or ending, the church I went to growing up was low and modern like an office building and didn't have bells. Bells are funny, communal objects. Why does a bell ring if it's not meant to be heard by and mean something to a group of people. The study of bells is called "campanology."

I took a bath that was too hot last night and woke up uncovered at 3 a.m. on my couch, brittle like a clay pot that's been fired and cooled. Full of pent-up vibrations like a bell that ain't been rung for ages. Bats in the belfry.

These past few days I've come to a sort of calm acceptance of my moods. Not calm, but unsurprised. There is nothing new or shocking in my general disappointment with my days; I do not expect _________ (I could not decide what to write there but anything fits). The profundity of my forced patience for something that moves me makes it difficult to allow myself relaxation anywhere else. I sit and compel myself to finish reading the chapter of the book I'm enjoying instead of feverishly biking the streets of downtown. I tell myself to stay in the bath-tub just a few more moments, though it is hot, because what else is waiting for me except passing out on the couch, cold.

I have been having trouble with time. Generally when I slip into a daydream it's not hard to lapse back into real-time and continue with my day, but when the daydreams end lately I'll find myself disoriented and unsure of how much time has passed. It feels like waking up without a clock next to you, and having to guess how much time you've been gone from the world. I usually find that what felt like it might have been an hour was only a few moments.

There is a nice lack of screaming in my head, just a vast, windy pla(i)n(e).

I'm never quite sure what normal is.