Ain't No Sunshine

Springtime in the mid-Atlantic:  brown turns to green; ice transforms into rain; the sun goes on holiday. For days. And extra days.

Except for brief flashes through the Pacific-northwest-style overcast, the sun has disappeared for the past six days. With each passing cycle of light-to-dark, the flowers erupt in their prescribed sequence, the grass grows almost audibly, the night comes later, the calendar progresses. That's how I can tell that time moves... so I believe.

Since unceremoniously being shown the door from my job, it's getting harder to tell.
I wake up, get the coffee on, feed the cat, sit for hours online, sifting for anything mentally stimulating or indicative of some kind of Progress. Eventually showering and putting on sensible clothes, I go through the motions of passing out applications and keeping upbeat when i know the outcome, beforehand.

(I began to write this entry a week ago. At the time, the ironic title was going to be Olivia Newton-John's sappy "Please Mr. Please [Don't Play B-17]"... subtitled, "As long as B-17 is Eddie Cochran's "Nervous Breakdown". it's not so amusing, anymore.)

The situation isn't really so dire. Despite all of the rejections, I've not exhausted all possibilities to satisfy my unemployment check... the first of which I haven't seen, just yet. Early tomorrow morning, there's an interview scheduled to get assistance in going back to school. Each week at the radio station re-energizes me. People on the street seem friendlier than usual. I can sleep in my own bed, every night, instead of couches... though I still seem to wind up there.

Those are "plus" signs.

But (and there are always "Buts")... nothing has changed at this "home". Opportunity is nonexistent. Conservatism rules. Those who were once "friends" disappear when it's time to cash in favors.

Old workmates suddenly become unreachable through phone calls and messages. Out Of Sight, Out Of Mind, unsurprisingly. Time Marches On.

Positive-negative. Up and down. Optimism-pessimism...

...much like this journal.

This pendulum will swing back, eventually... unless this Future has been writ.
"But", I don't believe that... not as long as I have breath, can move, can think, can act.

So, on Monday, i "acted". I got my hair cut.

In the past, I've been teased about how my backpack is my "pocketbook" (and You know who you are)... how my cooking skills would "make me a good wife"... and, how in piques of rage, how I get my head shorn. "Like a girl" (said, by a "girl"). This jokingly impugns my masculinity.

Well, I did it. Marine-short. Steve McQueen short. brutally short...

...though, undoubtedly, someone will say "G.I. Jane-short".

But, I needed to change the look of the person staring back in the mirror. That fucker needed work.

In more ways than one.

He could use a sunny day, too.