Maybe Someday

Stories. A rich history of fiction. I could regale you, but you'd never believe anything I had to say. It's all fiction, even the absolute real, which is just a surveillance video from a bad angle. No wind, and it's so quiet you'd think something was about to happen, but nothing does, just an ongoing "Waiting For Godot" state of tension. Tension may be the wrong word, because it implies anxiety, and, actually, everything is very calm. Still, a dynamic state, holding a pose, something contained but straining against some constraint. A common enough feeling. I've got this late dusky light turning all the trees into stick figures, and when I go out to pee the top layer of leaves are dry but everything underneath is mushy and sticks to my slippers. I don't want to go under the house tomorrow, but I have to; no way to get it done but to do it yourself. I have four or five servings of these great whole grain grits that I'll be eating over the next couple of days and tonight I pound out a couple of tenderloin slices, lightly bread them in a highly spiced flour, and fry them in a very hot skillet. I use a little walnut oil, but the skillet is so well cured I could have fried them dry, I really take care of my cast iron cookware; and serve them on a bed of polenta-like re-fried grits. Cheese grits, actually, because I nuked them with a feta while I was frying the eggs. Egg yolk, I would argue, is the greatest sauce ever. I shouldn't eat this well, because it spoils me, at some point you begin to expect things. Someone to pick you up, someone to do your makeup. I'm not concerned with my appearance, what you see is what you get, but I do place things into a context. There could be a narrative. Maybe we had met once on the jetty or something; and fuck you, TR, and the horse you rode in on, maybe there was the sound of surf, extrapolate from that. In so far as what is real.

Tom

Something else. What I say with a great deal of confidence is often not the case. It's a puzzle. Not a lie, exactly, more like a chess move, considered, but with reservations.Even where I might place a period, much less a comma..