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It is morning, a wet and cool morning that brings memories of the cool wet mornings I spent at the cottage in Canada. It is a do nothing day for you perhaps which may translate into a do something day for me. I have hopes. I have hope that I will return to the keyboard and find myself here again. I realize that If I am to do this I have to do it by myself. There is no one to help me this time. In the past there was always someone cheering me on. That is the past, however.
I may have as much as a couple hours here. It is a sweet thought with death nibbling at my ear lobe. Perhaps death is not that close. Perhaps it is more of a hunter stalking me across the forest, feet shuffling through the leaves, fingering the safety on his rifle. Her rifle? Would there be irony in death being a woman after all this life? I have had a lot of life and am grateful for that, grateful to who or what may be responsible for all his hysteria, this madness of joy, color, and musical precision of life.
It is nearly time to wind the clock again. It is a sort of a contemporary grandfather clock encased in glass with shelves for curios. You have your glass birds in there and they look just fine surrounded by all the glass and mirroring. It is a tall clock, perhaps seven feet. I have become responsible for winding it, because, as you explained, my chair faces it and I have a better perspective for monitoring itís state of wind or unwind. It is driven by three heavy weights. My anxiety is that the lines holding the weights will break someday.
I have become an old thing too easily overwhelmed. My poetry is nearly a lost cause as I cannot any longer make sense of the vast number of poems and versions stored across three computers. I am overwhelmed. I keep thinking that I can crawl out from beneath this life at some point and make sense of the poetry. There was something I did wrong with it, some mistake I made which will take a lot of work to correct. I think I am up for it if I do not take on any other jobs. Jobs like the piano.
I will travel to Ohio next week. I have not figured out the exact days and I need to do that. I will be going alone. You will not go with me. I do not completely understand this, but I accept it. I am dreading the day when I can no longer drive to Ohio, that day when everyone there is dead except for my sister and I will still need to see my sister. What will I do? Hire a long-haul Uber? Maybe they will have shared self-driving cars by then and I can be whisked away via robot.
I was thinking to take a walk today but it is raining but I am writing, but the day is off to a slow start and does not look like it will pick up speed. It is eleven oíclock and I still have not had my breakfast. I am thinking to eat a piece of pumpkin pie when that event comes around. That leaves lunch and dinner, or perhaps just dinner. Maybe you will bake the ham or maybe we will go out for dinner. We go out for dinner a lot. It is something we do. It satisfies something.
They painted circles around the holes in the road today. It was raining and they used the puddles as guides to identify the low areas. I am pretty sure that was what they were doing. The man from the paving company will come look at the painted holes and give us an estimate for repairing the road. I think the estimate is going to be a lot bigger than anyone thinks. I could be wrong. I actually hope I am wrong. A large special assessment would be a problem for many of the people who live in this condo association.
When you run out of things to write about this early in the month what do you do? Well, over the years I have come up with a bag of tricks to deal with that. I open the bag and let the tricks out, just a few at a time. If I open the bag too much they all come out in a rush, legs and arms all tangled and such a mess. It is best to just get one clean trick out. This one was a green one with black markings. It was a figure of wire and rubber.
The rain is soaking into the ground. It has been raining for days and the sump pump in the basement has been running its little heart out. I live in fear of the sump pump, for the day it quits working and the basement fills up with water. You have assured me that the water does not get so very deep, even when the pump quits working, but I get scared of the smallest of things, sometimes getting scared for no particular reason at all. Yes, I take meds for that but they do not really work so very well.
I really need a haircut. You keep saying I donít really need one. I am not sure whether you are just being thrifty or whether you like me better with longer hair. I have never been one to grow long hair. I have never had a pony tail, and I used to wear my hair much shorter than I do now. It annoys me when it is long. I can feel it moving around on my head, and in the morning I have to brush it now because it heaves up into a corona about my head in the night.
I am feeling good just now. It is the writing. It organizes my thinking or something. Maybe it is the music I listen to while writing. The program I started listening to is ending. It was a one-hour program so I have been writing for an hour. This may mean that I need to write for two more hours. This is possible, the only problem being that I may run out of subject matter. I certainly have run out of music. I can refresh the music however. I suppose I can also refresh the subject matter. I could write forever?
There are times when you have to push to get a thing born. You are leaned over in the woods, the leaves and plants slippery with rain beneath your feet. You are heaving on a log but not making much progress. Time to use your man brain and think of something to help move the log. Back to the house for the tools. You get a come-along and a long pipe for a pry bar so you can get a rope beneath the log. Returning you hook up a harness and pause. Where were you planning to move this log?
Life seems to be limited. Beyond the finite borders of our focus lies fear. And there are so few things on which to focus. A few things seem to be enough for me. I suppose that is what keeps boat people going, and motor home people, and even travel people, although those pastimes seem to scare me. I keep forgetting that they are normal and I am not. However, from statistics I have read a great percentage of the population seems to suffer from severe anxiety and panic disorders. Itís a wonder we are able to keep the world going.
An ant crawls across the screen of my computer. This would normally cause me no concern, excepting that it is a touch screen. Why did I buy a touch screen computer? I donít remember. I know I also wanted the lit keyboard, and I actually use that feature. I like it. But the touch screen? No, not yet. I have not made the transition to tablet, largely because I am so stuck on the keyboard. I donít think I type as well as I used to. But the ant. There was an ant on my screen. There he is again.
I made a mistake and saved an entry over another entry. I donít even remember what the other entry was about. It may have been about making coffee. I did make myself another cup of coffee, and yes, when I got up to make the coffee, the panic returned. It is only when I am here writing that the panic is not unravelling me. But I cannot stay here all day. In another hour and a half or so I will step out from behind the keyboard and back into life. What do other people do? Are they afraid too?
It is the lying in bed without my keyboard part of the end of life that scares me. I secretly hope to go by stroke or heart attack while I am still able to get about. I fear the loss of mobility. What does that mean? The driving may be taken care of by driverless cars by the time I am 90, so the rest is how well I can walk, bend over to tie my shoes, put on my socks and so on. How much longer will I be able to pay my bills when inflation takes off again?
All that means, of course, that I need to sort out my poems and put them into a book before the massive heart attack or stroke happens. I should stop fiddling with the piano and I have made that decision before, but there is a new problem now. Now I live with someone who I want to please and who wants me to play the piano. I have never had this kind of distraction to deal with before. True there have been distractions and plenty of them, but I have been able to keep writing. Not so much these days.
The world is a green thing. We are a green and blue catís eye floating in the darkness, spinning, ever spinning. We are a hapless target for the next asteroid or the seemingly inevitable nuclear exchange. But from here the world is a wet and green thing, even though its end or my end may come in the next moment. The odds are that it would be my end. But I play long odds, buying lottery tickets every week and proudly bearing them home. So many plan their future based on when they will win the lottery. Ship of hope.
The world is a green thing. It is spinning on the invisible axel shoved through it, penetrating dirt and bedrock, shoved through the molten core. Is the core molten? I have forgotten what the last science news I read had to say about it. Nickel core? I have forgotten so much of this stuff. Young children study it in school, not knowing how much they will forget by the time they are my age and I am not so old. My parents now, that is a different story. They are old. Will I live that long? My father is ninety-five.
The world is a green thing. It is older now and is covered by a haze of yellow flowers. They mark the land masses right to the edge of the blue-green waters. The world spins. We know it is spinning at a remarkable rate of speed because that is what we have been told. About a thousand miles an hour they say. It is also circling the sun at the rate of 18.5 miles/second. Another About a thousand miles an hour. The sun in turn is circling the galaxy at a rate of close to ten thousand miles an hour.
The world is a green thing. But I donít want to talk about that any more. I donít want to speak of the yellow flowers. I cough them up in the morning, the petals flowing out my mouth. The stems turning until they touch the ground where they instantly take root as if they had been there all along. That is my job, my purpose. I am the flower coughing god. What the purpose of the yellow flowers is, I donít know, but at least I have a purpose. Their purpose is their little problem and theirs to figure out.
I hear the piano hit a hard note. I am not sure which one, perhaps an A above middle C. It is an improvisation from starís end. What is it about music that moves us in the way it does? It is a combination of tone and rhythm. It may even include rhyme. It pierces the body the way the axel pierces the green world and moves us firmly on its shaft. Oh I hate using that image as the shaft turns to wood as soon as I say it and the splinters begin to chafe as the wood rots.
I am breathless having run this far without faltering. My mother says life is a simple matter of not falling down. What can this mean to me who falls down with such startling frequency? I am too young to start worrying about falling down but I understand what it can mean to an older person. It is one more danger in al already too-dangerous world of car accidents, fires in the night, and home intruders. When we are young we do not worry so much about any of these things. We drive fast and smoke in bed behind unlocked doors.
Why are there so many cop shows on TV anymore? Is it just the channel selection We have purchased from our cable company? Did we buy the Cop Shows All Day Every Week package? Even the network news seems to be an eerily packaged version of a Cop show interspersed with the daily Trump news. Today the president tweeted he was not getting out of bed. ďIt is all too depressing,Ē President Trump said as he fluffed his pillow and rolled over to face the wall. What will the news people do? They will report the presidentís staying in bed.
You stare out the window into the rain. I wring my hands hopefully and look at you. I keep thinking you will save me from the angst, but you cannot. Only I can save me from the angst. I can do it now by continuing to type. When I am done typing I will have to find something else to do. It is important that I keep moving so the angst cannot pin me down. Life has become a dance of constant movement to stay ahead of it. I cannot afford to get tired. I cannot afford to quit moving.
It is a green world. I have said that, but the pictures we see of it from outer space show it as blue with scattered cloud cover. Maybe I have seen too few pictures from outer space or maybe I have not traveled far enough. I assume the blue is from all the water, but the ocean I have seen is a dirty brown. Is it blue out where it is deep? Has it all turned brown from the garbage we have dumped in it? Do all boats empty their sewage tanks into the water? Do we swim in filth?
I am nearly done with my writing for the day. This causes me some anxiety because I will have to then lean into the day without my writing to prop me up. Will my meds have fully kicked in by then? Will it be time to take some more meds and then time to wait for them to kick in? I check the time. Yes, the latter. I will be in trouble. It is doubtless why I am starting to feel some angst, not because I am almost done here but because my meds are wearing off. Suck it up.
Oh, it is close to time for me to start the piano. But before that I need to shower and dress. Before that I need to take meds. Before that comes the rest of this. I saw turtles on the road last week. Yes, it is last week already. We were driving on a dirt road in the country and there were two water turtles crossing the road. I didnít get out to help them because they were close to their goal. It was last summer that I got out to help the large box turtle that was run over.
I want to get away from this and write something that is fun. Something like the stiff yellow grass growing in the sun. Something about the way it moves in the wind. Oh, this is so trite and so true. I feel so limited in my power of persuasion. I should write about faraway places but I do not want to pen travelogues. Letís take a moment and write about the stiff yellow grass waving in the sun. It must be autumn for it to be such a color, no longer green, ready now to go to seed and sleep.
It is April 30, the end of another month. In truth I didnít think I would be able to finish this monthís entries. There was simply too much going on and oh there are so many things one is not allowed to write. I could write a list of them but that is not allowed either. I have already written too many things that are not allowed and will no doubt be banished for it. I will be banished to some rocky sun baked island where there is no food and no paper to write on. They will make sure.
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