Rewind

This amalgam of soap flakes, glitter and feathers, I didn't do it justice, is beyond the pale. The whole of yesterday, culminating in the phone call with my daughter, one of, the older, is surreal. Barbie is 51 years old. She doesn't look it, because of all that surgery, the lifts, the implants. In 1959, that first doll sold for 3 bucks. You should wish you had a couple, in the original boxes. I ask Angela, the PHD feminist, how many Barbies she has, an innocent question, I swear; I don't own a single GI Joe and I was genuinely curious about collecting dolls, why you would and where you keep them. Playing with the fishes. If you mop a floor where kids have been carving soap, use clear water, there will be enough detergent, you'll need to rinse several times. A comedy of sorts. I'm too old for this, but I'll play the game, and the odds, one more time, because I am shamed as a father. I hate this shit. I can barely manage my own life, and I certainly offer no advice to anyone else. The quality of mercy. I'm used up, in that regard, there's nothing left, a shadow of my former self. I'll draw a line in the sand here, this, and then no further. Expect nothing else ever. I simply can't do it. I used to be able to, but now I'm old and in the way. Ignore me, a late season fly, beating against the window. It's an insurmountable mountain: no cleats, no ropes, no nothing. Climbing a razor edge where both sides fall forever. I toy with the idea of taking the truck, but it's too risky, I'll rent a car that gets good mileage, and that'll save half the cost of the rental. D has many books on tape. Either going or coming home I'll flip over to Rt.30 on the north side of the South Platte. One of my favorite roads. I'll stay with John and Kay one night, my favorite house I ever built for someone else. Samara says I can crash on her sofa, and I will, a few nights. Will need to dog some long days driving, and find someone to feed dog. Maybe I can find someone to housesit. Anybody want to hole-up for a couple of weeks, live primitive, feed the dog? I have a very good library, you could browse the entire time. Strange, suddenly, thinking about that, how if someone other stayed here, for two weeks, a significant amount of time, alone, they would certainly understand more about me. They wouldn't even have to be alone, because they wouldn't be me. AND it's the easiest time of year to live here, no fires, no chores, other than feeding the dog, and it's really lovely. Brandy would enjoy it, or Aralee. I'm serious, May 12th to maybe the 25th, I'm out of here, and someone needs to feed Dog. I was thinking of showing her, you know, as a half-breed, as a dirt-covered working dog. Is that a class? I'm only flippant as it relates to anything important. I walk in now to observe spring happening. The gentle flush of green. That's why I burned four cords of wood. I knew there was a reason. I want a pill, goddamnit, that would both feed my outer self and nurture the inner me. I can hear Sara whispering in my ear, ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall. Feed your head. I pay absolute attention to completely insignificant details, can't help myself: the daffodils, clustered as they were, represented an old house site. I'm a student of this new science. What used to be.