s u m m e r
I'm sitting here tonight far after I should have gone to bed and I'm thinking. See, I've been digging myself out lately. Digging myself out of work, digging myself out of debt (or further into it), digging myself out of the mess that my apartment has become, and making sense of the existence my life has become as of late.
Nothing to worry about except that I've been quite, anxious (to a degree) and not writing like I should be. Oh, I've no shortage of topics, but I promised the next seven would be real and that has called into question, what is real?
Sure, I've been true to my plan, but at what cost?
I sat down to attempt to write about two weeks in my life and what I came away with was the truth that I can't do it. Not in a row, not like I imagined. I thought I'd sit down and all the words would spill out with such due course that all I'd have to do was FTP the words up for everyone to see.
The truth is it's a little more complex than that. The things that inspire me may not have happened yesterday or the day before, or last month, or even last year. Hell, I never know what I'm going to write to be honest about it. And this is about as "into the author's mind" as this site is ever likely to get. I don't go for explaining my methods.
But I've been slack to a degree in the past month and in large part because I've been trying to write about something I have not yet come to terms with.
It was a helluva couple weeks, and I could write for a long time about what happened. Even longer if I entertain the thought of what could've happened, and in the meantime life goes on.
Each day puts me farther in time from those moments, but closer to their meaning. Meanwhile I spent what I thought might be the last night on earth with my Mom. Did I write about that? No. I stood on the dock at Highrock and watched a squall line run right over me until my glasses we soaked and I grew tired of watching lightening. Did I write about that? No. I once had a dog that was my pal for most of my youth. Wrote a poem about that dog once at a Red Lobster. She died a couple weeks ago. Would have been twenty in February, can you believe it?
So I guess I'm trying to say that it's late. I'm tired. And I'll finish these last pieces but on my own time. They'll be better for the waiting.
Right now my mind is on turning back the clock to a couple of places and that's nowhere good to be.
So that's my mind tonight. My piece of it. My 5K, give or take.
I want to leave you with a couple places to think of.
Where are you? I'm there.
I'm also in New Orleans, eating crayfish by the lake.
I'm in D.C. unloading a van and both dreading leaving and fighting the urge to catch the next flight home.
I'm in a flat in Sweden after a rather intense party, catching up on Ulysses.
I'm chasing the globe in pursuit of myself.
I'm also right here, leafing through old albums as I clean wishing I had a record player and remembering the times before CD's.
I'm right here writing to you.
I'm right here hoping, wishing, you were here...all of you.
goodnight 7.27.99