Yesterday, on the Writers Almanac, there was a poem that describes to a T what happens to me at meetings. Armed at last with an accurate description, I will continue to look for a cure (though I believe in my heart the only remedy is to skip them). In the meantime I post it here in case you missed it.
At the Very Lengthy Meeting
At the very lengthy meeting
I actually felt my soul leave my body
and rush toward the ceiling—
and fly around the walls and flare
toward daylight, toward the windows—
to throw silently its impetuous emptiness
against the glass in vain.
It could not go anywhere, the clear moth.
Then it lay on the rug, not exhausted
but bored and so inert that it almost—
took on a hue, stained with all the breaths
and words and thoughts that filled the room:
the yellow-green color of old teeth.
P.S. the photo above has nothing to do with the poem, it's of one of the old stone walls on N1700 road in Douglas county. Sometimes in a meeting I pretend I am walking on that road rebuilding the walls. I do that so things won't come out of my mouth that I am likely to regret later.