Further Thoughts

I'm awake now. Doesn't seem to matter what's being said. I just like setting in the writer's seat. A vantage. Reading myself, I come off as a comic character, which I maybe am, truth be told, but I think of myself as serious, nonetheless. I hate clowns and I hate those fucking balloons. Flowers are marginal. Sometimes a brochette, wait, that's not the correct word, but I love the way it looks. I avoid a great many things, I just stay silent. When I'm alone, of course, I talk to myself. A dialog that would mystify almost anyone. The grace is just that I don't fall. I reread McCord's "The Man Who Walked To The Moon" for maybe the tenth time. It's a beautiful read, one of my favorite books, it always drives me to the dictionaries, and I do love my dictionaries. They take me out of my body, a failing vessel if there ever was one, and allow some reflection. Reality is a shaggy dog story. A monkey goes into a bar with a tennis racket. I can't remember the rest of the joke. I made that up, there is no joke. Mumbling, I walk out to the Jeep and sit, with the heat running and the heated seats, and read a New Yorker. It's nice to have a vehicle that works. Three young squirrels announce the day; ephemeral, squirrels are, the way they dart from place to place. Incredibly stupid, the way they reverse course and scamper back under your tires, but watching them leap from branch to branch is not unlike listening to Greg Allman play on Boz Scaggs' first album. Or whatever example you might use. The cloud cover has been uniform gray, most of the day, but now, just at sunset, there are patches of blue, and the ribbons of light (Emily's phrase) cut across the landscape like a laser. A follow-spot that isolates a strip of real estate on the far side of the hollow. It's beautiful, the way things are illuminated. I was working in the Janitor Files today, it's slow going, because it was already pared to the bone, and what I think I need to do is add connective tissue but I'm hesitant to add anything. What I'm doing now is stripping away the headers and just stacking the paragraphs like containers on a cargo ship. Another title would be "Cargo Tongue" but that would probably be too esoteric. A pattern language. Patois. Cut me loose and I can blow a mean horn. Not unlike Bill at the convention. A saxophone isn't that different from a French Horn in the lower registers. Whatever you make of me, be advised, I've thought about that, otherwise I couldn't continue.