Entropy

That post I sent around five this afternoon was actually Monday's post. I'd printed my copy and everything, but then forgot to send, maybe punched Send Later, or some other slight confusion. Stayed in town last night because of rain, and because the flooding was already extensive. Floods all the time here. The quarter-mile dirt track in the Scioto bottom, you could of raced boats; most years, this would all be frozen. I started reading some Walter Benjamin and some Derrida, and the next thing I knew it was two in the morning; an incident pops out at me here, and I have to go back and reread myself to see if I'd mentioned it. I don't think I did. I was coming out of the pub Monday after a quick Happy Hour draft; last thing I do, when leaving the bar is to roll a cigaret, for the walk back to the truck, and there's a biker dude, leathers, standing there, smoking. I decide to test my mixer skills in a situation that I would normally just walk away from. Truth is I'm bored with the conversation at work: Sara's not there, D's on half-time, and Kristi is someplace down in Kentucky. I miss talking seriously. Usually when this happens I just move, sometimes it's easier starting all over. For one thing, you can reinvent yourself as the person you now find yourself being. That can be a comfort, and comfort is not to be denied. This dude, after a brief discussion of the weather, how unseasonably warm, launched into a monolog about be kicked out of bars FOR LIFE. He'd been both stabbed and shot, and he'd much rather be shot. Not to put too fine a point. But two out of three are dead, and the last one is a liar, what do you do then? I'm actually, seriously, asking. Consider reaching for the fence, and just popping a ball into play: which difference is significant. Look on the slides Here and There, there's bound to be a connection. A slow-roller down the third base line. My guess is they met in the locker-room, and something happened. But I don't have any proof that anything actually happened. What I most hate about the combined arts, is that I would eventually have to ask you what you thought happened. Pretty sure I saw what happened. Slight of hand. But when you know what to look for, it's all fairly obvious, the feints, the dodges, the postures, and when I go for your knees with a mop-handle, you see I'm serious. It's a single man standing event, and I actually think I am last man standing. We'd have to go back over the record, but it seems pretty clear.

Knock some shit out of the attic. You present yourself to be me, a voice, really, i hear from left field, but I respect the implication.