Another Thing

Got up to pee, middle of the night, even the bugs had gone to bed. I'm outside, it's really dark, cool, slightly damp, the brittle leaves are rattling. I'm almost drunk, swaying, wondering why I'm here, alone. Instead of going back to bed, which would be the sensible solution, I log on and choose to write you. I'm resistant because I know I'm beyond writing but I want to try. To be honest with you. Several things bother me and I haven't mentioned them. I'm not clinically depressed, but I have feelings, sometimes I hear voices, but I can explain them as aspects of wind. All sounds are possible, if you listen. And as a codicil, all things are visible. I see things. Can't help it. I'll be doing something mundane, mopping the floor or sweeping dust-bunnies out of the corner, and I'll see Emily D out of the corner of my eye, or Proust rounding the corner. I can't help it. You live alone, you make things up. What we strive toward, is making sense. You take all this varied imput and you pat it into shape, build a model, smooth all the rough surfaces, call it reality. It looks good. Thinking about Kim, making molds for his pours, there is something about cast iron that is almost permanent. I imagined a single crow, lost, trying to find his clan. He weeped in the night. I hear him, a plantive cry, a solitary scream, I am him, I know that sound. I don't care shit about what I might have been, I only want to be in the moment. It's hard to face reality. However you face the world, there are facets, the plastic diamond I found today, glinting in afternoon light, is almost precious, means more to me than a diamond. Why is that important? Why do things carry meaning? When B and I were talking I noticed I looked directly into his eyes. Does that mean something? Also the smell, must talk with the Deputy about French Whore House perfumes, what we must not wear. There are limits. I dress plainly and smell earthy for a reason. I thought that was clear.

Tom

I can't let go, I have this idea of you, in my mind, and it wouldn't; I don't make this shit up, let me sleep. What it is, is that I can say anything to you and you would understand, I don't have to explain myself, but, yet, that is all I do. Explain. The stick is merely a stick, I might sand the edges, grind down to the heart, mere embellishment. Anything I refer to is pre-existent, in the nature of the thing itself, I don't make this shit up. Life. The universe. It happens. I was below the floodwall, today, yesterday, it bothers me I can't remember which. Who are you, exactly?