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It is time to start another missive here. The word comes from the Latin, the root pointing to a word for ďsend.Ē I wonder about the word missile. It might be related somehow. It might not. These questions of etymology are often misleading, often wrong. At any rate it occurs to me that the word isnít quite right anyway because I am not sending anything anywhere. I am not really communicating at all because the only reason anyone reads one of these things is to check something they have already written. I am scrawling meaningless glyphs on the cave wall.
I was starting to glue the leather to the wall. I started this morning. Actually, I started last night, but last night was more thinking about it, more looking at the wall and considering what kind of adhesive would be best. It was me looking at the stack of leather and wondering. I had already calculated how much leather I would need to cover the wall. I had even calculated how many animalsí worth of skin it was. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. As time went on it no longer seemed like a good idea.
Korean Health officials say it will be best to stay home this year during Chuseok. Chuseok is their version of Thanksgiving. Well, that is their theory. When I ask them about Chuseok, they donít know what I am talking about until I say, ďKorean Thanksgiving,Ē and then they understand. This is because my Korean is so bad. However most of them are doing exactly what the government asks: they will stay home. When this happens in the United States there will be an outcry of stifled liberty and so on. The merits of staying home will be discussed at length.
I couldnít do all my work anyway, and by tomorrow most of it would be irrelevant. I just didnít know which part would stay in play, so It made sense to wait until tomorrow to see which pieces of work I should have done. Instead, I went for a walk. I walked down State Street, heading north from Liberty. I walked into 1967. That was a slightly different time. I was surprised that the air seemed heavier. I had expected a lighter, a more innocent time. That is what we always expect from an earlier time, isnít it?
Sometimes, when I am not paying close attention I will write to you. Or to you, or you. It is a natural extension of an internal monologue that follows me around like a small imaginary playmate. I sometimes have to avoid writing to you. This space is, after all, not safe. I never know who will poke their heads in to read. There was a time when I felt invulnerable, when I thought I could write whatever I wanted, that I had some arcane license. This was not true. If I did have a license, even then it was expired.
Every day at about this time I sit down here and fall asleep. I donít get much of a nap, because I have to get up and prepare for work every day at a quarter to five. Sometimes Iím left with as little as five minutes to nap. Perhaps my chair here is comfortable. I can fall asleep here more quickly and more reliably than I can in my bed. In fact, often if I cannot sleep in bed, I will get up and fall asleep here. The grip of tall back against my head seems to relax me. Already
Itís already open. The can is standing there on the counter with the lid already off. You may have missed it because of the lighting. It seems a little dim in here. Maybe that is because Iíve been staring at a video screen for too long. It does feel good when I close my eyes and look away. Doing that I have a sudden memory of a dream I had a couple nights back. I am standing somewhere near a railroad track. As I look down the rails I can see the tracks are overgrown with weeds and small trees.
I have not yet relaxed into my working brain. Perhaps there is something else going on between the two brains, or the three or four or five brains. Or however many brains. Soon Iíll go for a walk, out into the clatter and the color of the day. Out into the dampness from the night before, my shoes splattering as they slap against the pavement, the grass and leaves glistening. Well, it does rhymeólisteningódo you suppose they are? Listening? They are you know. They just perceive the sounds differently than we do. That is all. That is all.
I tried doing something different here. It was just an impulse I had. For a moment I was writing poetry again, as if I had never forgotten how. The poetry well is filled with a different fluid now. It was dressed down, with phrasing and metre taken from a simpler time. It made me wonder that if there are two brains, an automatic one and a logical one, which of these brains then writes poetry? I am thinking that I cannot ascribe poetry to either of these two minds. Rather it is a synthesis of the two, called reckless consideration.
Thereís a funny smell in here today, and I know what it is, but I donít know what to do about it. And if the G/F gets a whiff of it she is gonna go through the roof. She is a bit reactive about stuff like that. I donít like it either. Part of the problem is that I take her reactions too seriously and try to fix everything right away. That creates two additional problems. The first is that it makes her more likely to react in the first place. The second is that it intensifies my own stress.
Ok I have a plan for the funny smell. It is mildew of some kind. I will continue running the dehumidifier. I will also run the air purifier. I will add a fan to help circulate the air. I should see a difference in the dehumidifierís ability to drop the humidity level. I did move it, and this was probably a mistake. I will move it back to where it was and keep an eye on it. I think these measures should take care of things. If not I will simply buy a bigger dehumidifier. That shouldnít be necessary though.
2020 dances. Pointy toes on the side of your head. 2020 prances while we wait six feet apart instead.
I hear the screaming flames Sputtering homes leaping block to block. 2020 is on fire, Way too hot to stop.
2020 marches, hands in the sky A rolling angry crowd crowd of barefoot neighbors On blacktop about to fry.
Itís a hothouse world I believe 2020 wears a grin Behind a surgical mask And youíre afraid to breathe
Give me six feet mister Six feet from the spores I donít care what your president says Any closer; Iím out the door.
Now my feet hurt. There is always something to complain about. There is always something to praise. We are the perfect hymn singers though. Did I ever tell you that? We have evolved over millions of years to perfection for singing. We are so evolved to this that any one of us becomes angelic merely in taking a breath. Even the complaints, the laments, and the cries for mercy are hymns, and we were made to sing hymns. Each note, each beat, bleat, quiver and yelp are songs of life, are silos of worship stacked in favor. We are song.
I might be quiet tonight. May not have a song to sing. It may be moist night out the window past the glass into the air breathless flight of a single idea, a dart through space. There are new stains on the ground and I am not totally sure what has happened here. It is the last thing I would have expected to find. I mean when you do come across these things your mind refuses to take them in. You just cannot see them. I dunno. I am falling here, falling asleep in mid-sentence, fingers holding down the keys.
Itís been a kind of gritty day today, playing in the dirt, cleaning stuff outside, bringing stuff home from Home Depot. Now Iím listening to Joni singing in the dark, waiting for the orchestra to bloom behind her. I should just give up and get myself another 100.2 Ė the Audio Research amp. Thereís one for sale on USAudiomart. The price is a little high, but not too bad. Theyíve had it up for a month and havenít sold it yet, Still the Vidar doesnít do too badly. Iím not sure I could really hear a difference between the two blindfolded.
I might be a little sleepy. I slept a lot this morning in the chair. Iíve not been sleeping well in the bed. Aches and pains. I might be getting old. I know I sleep better if I take an OTC pain remedy before going to bed. It doesnít take much. An Alieve or a couple of Tylenol work fine, but I am usually still feeling ok when I go to bed, so I donít bother. It isnít until around 3 a.m. when Iíve woken up for the third time that I realize I should have taken it after all.
A suitably-shaped stone thrown into water at the correct angle and velocity will bounce off the surface of the water and continue this way, falling, bouncing, and falling again until it loses its momentum and finally sinks into the water below. It will drop slowly through the brown water until it lands softly in the silt at the bottom of the pond raising a small cloud of dust that swirls briefly before slowly settling too. There the stone sets in the silt with countless other suitably shaped stones, slowly being covered with the dust at the bottom of the pond.
It is agreeable, the slight way you walk down stairs. I remember your hand, gentle on the rail, not touching, resting perhaps a silly millimeter above the worn wood. I remember the resilience of the pads of your feet, their weight. And I still remember the weight of your body and the way my arms slipped around you effortlessly, the way you leapt into each breath I caught, and I am in endless in this arc of thought, stretched from here to there, struggling against memories claw. The cost was extreme, but I am not concerned. The price was fair.
His color in my memory is perhaps a yellow gold, Possibly, from the hunting clothes he wore, and hunting was the thing he loved the best. More likely I remember the color from the late fall and early winter marches through the harvested corn fields across Ohio. I remember the color from the wasted weeds, and crumbling leaves. Yellow flies across those fields and bleaches out against the sky beyond. It flashes there against the dome of horizon and grows into a new sun. We are walking and he has stopped momentarily, looking at the new sun in the sky.
I come here in the evening. I am almost here, very nearly there. I think. I could be wrong. I am almost always wrong in these cases. It can be discouraging that way. You crawl. All the way across the highway. And then you crawl through the bean field after that. Your knees are muddy, and your arms are cut by thistles and rocks. All you have to look forward to is the woods beyond the field. It is dark and deep, and you will have to crawl through that too. Crawling has become a way of life for you.
I will take a run at this thing. What else is life for? I am beginning to wonder. I wonder what I am to do with my life at this point. I am running out of things that make sense. I swallowed the spider to catch the fly. I used to know why I swallowed the fly. There is no doubt I will die. I should start at the beginning. The purpose of man is to be live. Life is a defiant shout into the darkness. My purpose is to make this noise, so a joyful noise I will make.
You set a straw on the table. It was an ordinary straw This was supposed to mean something, but I did not know what. It was like something written in a foreign language using a foreign alphabet. Was I supposed to touch it? Taste it? Could I decipher it merely by looking at its length? Or was I supposed to interpret the curve? Perhaps the angle to the axis defined by the edges of the table. I get it. I was to solve for the equation, and that would have meaning that would give me to understand what you wanted.
Oh, he wants to fly. There are times when all I want is to sleep, to find that drugged, dark, shaggy happiness that will let me not only sleep through the night but also to over-sleep. Over-sleep. What a luxury! How long has it been since I over-slept? Perhaps when I was a teen in Ohio, someone who would awaken only to possibility and even then, the world was all possibility. There was too much of the stuff, so I slept. Sixteen hours a night were not enough, and there was no one to tell me it was not normal.
Those precious thoughts that crowd your head sometimes seem to be the most significant things that could be conceived, but they are ephemeral. Like dreams, you cannot remember them a few hours later. Sometimes they are gone completely within a few moments. These things that seem to be so much of our consciousness are but fleeting configurations of some stuff. Stuff? Some say it is nothing but electricity. Others claim electricity is made up of moving stuff. Still others claim that stuff, in turn, is nothing but energy. They say that we are nothing but the whim of a whim.
I think I need to clear out my mind. I am thinking of something along the line of Hercules diverting a river through the kingís stables to clear them out, the water scrubbing the walls and hauling all that shit and stale hay downstream to the next town where they are debating how to send it downstream yet again. I wonder how the horses reacted when, returning to their stalls, they found fish flopping on the floor, gasping from the too raw air. I wonder if the stables really smelled much better with all that marine mud and muck everywhere.
The dark sky is turning purple out the window. I can see ripples across the cloud underbelly there. I am thinking of standing on your side porch, remembering you standing there, your back pressed against the doorframe. There was a momentís pause where I could hear the liquid lake surging against its banks, a bird calling from the foliage behind the house, and the heavy sound of the breeze parting the curls on your head. I remember the painted window frame and the shape of the wood grain beneath the paint. I remember the angles of the roof; the kiss.
I think itís squirrels leaving little piles of smashed black walnuts on the path here. I really canít think of anything else that can open a black walnut like that. I knew it was going to be slightly chilly, but I wasnít expecting the wind. Fall seems to have come early and quickly this year, or maybe it is just the general acceleration if time we experience as we grow older. Leaves are sweeping past me in the wind like giant colorful snowflakes and my nose is running madly. It is a day for wind, a day for being alive.
I like the desktop best. I make a lot of mistakes with the touchpad on the laptop. Perhaps it is too sensitive. With the desktop I get a mouse. There is probably an adjustment I can make to the touchpadís sensitivity. I think I have run across it before. It is for people with lazy palms, like me. Perhaps my machine wore down over the past five years. Alternatively, my wrists and palms have gotten more relaxed, more careless. I should be happy my wrists and palms still move at all at my age. Actually I am happy about that.
When I was a boy in Ohio, there was a drive-in called the New Moon Drive-In. My parents would go to the New Moon on the weekend. I was supposed to sleep in the back seat while they watched the movie. In the back seat of a Chevy, I bet. My father liked Chevyís. Or something older. I wasnít very old then. Maybe it was that car they had with the window shade on the rear window. I usually didnít sleep when they went to the movie. I would watch the movie through the split in the front two seats.
I remember being scared by the movies my parents watched at the New Moon Drive In. One was about a swamp creature. Another was about giant ants. I believe it was called ďThemĒ and, according to IDMB, that came out in 1954. That would have been around my fifth birthday. They had pony rides at the New Moon then, out on the grass in front of the big screen. And they had swings, and other playground equipment. The concession stand was a squat square concrete building, open to the air. The lighting in there was always strange, a blue glow.
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