Sharpen the knife that slices the contradictions

Sharpen the contradictions that knife through a Sunday night, when the soul suffers from heartburn.

Monday is for washing and drying laundry and then leaving it crumpled and hardening in desiccated lumps in order to trace the arc of the Tennis Court Oath as it rattles down the hallway of history and echoes the Persian sacking of Delhi in 1739 and presages Yeltsin on a tank at the White House, the other White House.

Pity-wallow in the scrim of this droll and complacent Tuesday, the better to map the bounded conceptual stickiness of a closed-off 24 hour universe in which the mother is prohibited and frustration of the object for itself renders a biting boredom implacably gray.

Awake on Wednesday and understand that “enjoy yourself” is no longer permissive’s prerogative, but imperative’s ironclad directive. Revolt by being miserable and eating heaping plates of overcooked gelatinous fusilli.

Thursday is for folding and putting the laundry away and telling anyone within earshot that a murmuration is to a starling no different than a monster truck rally is to our forebears from that foreign land of 1987.

Friday is good for a dog worrying at the marrow of a shin bone and for cozening up close to that phantasm in which ascending to the top of a multinational corporate pyramid to chip away at the heart of the heart of the territory is a plausible and cognizable minor term in an incoherent syllogism.

Saturday fulfills a duty to document the momentary relief that comes from an unclocked and inimical freedom from, not freedom to.

Sunday, whet the stone. Scrape to sharpen, sharpen to simplify.