David's Inferno by David Blistein Read Free Book Online

the thousand natural shocks
    That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation
    Devoutly to be wish’d
.
    My sleep would be light. But that was okay. I also loved waking up … as often as possible … in the middle of the night: midnight, 1, 2, 3; the sweet realization that I could fall back asleep before the jitteriness again reared it’s chaotic head in the early hours of dawn. Which, inevitably, it did.

    Even though an unexamined life might not be worth living, an examined one can be too painful. One warm-ish day that winter, I sat on the screened-in porch in the back of my cabin, drinking a cup of chai tea, very spicy, a lot of cardamom. Trying to generate some inner fire. I went in to get my laptop and sat there, forcing myself to write … to dissect the moment, as if that wouldgive me some power over it. Instead of cowering, I’d look it right in the eyes:
    The soundtrack is the steady just-above-freezing and even-warmer-in-the-sun drip drip drip of snow melting off the roof
.
    A nuthatch is working upside down on the almonds in the cage-like feeder. Carefully avoiding the slightly rancid oat-cake cookies. The chickadees have taken over the platform feeder like they own the place—as if squirrels were figments of their imaginations. They wish
.
    I got my best bird feeder for $2 at a tag sale. I had to turn it around so I could see the birds better. This means they have to fly right at the window, stop, hover, and do a 180° turn to get at the food. At first, there were a few minor window collisions—no harm done. But now they do it gracefully
.
    Two or three chickadees work the feeder at a time, bickering a little as they make space for new arrivals. Drops of melting snow drip off the roof onto their heads. They don’t seem to notice. One just scooted the nuthatch away to see what the problem is with oatcakes. Hmm. They don’t taste all that bad. Well, on second thought, sunflower seeds are better
.
    Birds don’t dwell on the fact that perfectly good bird feeders have been turned the wrong way by some oblivious human; they don’t ask why any self-respecting bird would ever want to eat rancid oat cakes. They’re sort of like ancient storytellers. Comedy. Tragedy. Whatever. There’s always a good excuse to burst into song
.
    The sun is prism-ing some purples and blues through wispy clouds. It already seems a little higher in the sky. Maybe that’ll help. Maybe. I doubt it
.
    I’ve been looking for some traction. I’ve been looking for some ground. I’ve been looking for a pill I can take or a thought I can have. Something that will last more than half an hour or so
.
    The opposite of depression isn’t happiness, it’s inspiration. Having your ideas and energy pour forth, instead of sitting there, stagnating, cut off from the world. The angels ascended and descended on Jacob’sLadder. Circulating the energy of creation. Being unable to even put your foot on the first rung is, is, is …

    The scariest thing about Hell is that it’s the same old same old. We may not remember exactly what those poor souls did to deserve being frozen in whirlwinds, whipped by horned demons, or dunked in boiling blood—let alone having their heads screwed on backwards … a punishment I consider particularly savage. But, whatever they did, it’s the fact they have to endure their torments
for all eternity
that really gives me the heebie-jeebies. I mean even being enveloped in the arms of your beloved (see Second Circle of Hell—Lust) or eating maple sugar candy (see Third Circle of Hell—Gluttony) could get old after a while.
    I don’t mean to romanticize the state. There’s nothing romantic about it. Our fascination with our own or other people’s suffering is always a little prurient or, to be generous, like that of a child who is fascinated by something scary … in large part to