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Well I could work on a batch. Or I could take a nap. That sweet thing beckons and I donít mean the batch. I mean the nap, the sleep, the dream. It is a heavy drugged thing that tugs at me now. But I have some concern about the batch, about the 100 words entry. In the past it was an exit point for me. Now I see it as an entry point, which is what I thought all along it was supposed to be. What we think and what we are. We are temporary. What we think is vapor.
The fan turns its face back and forth, back and forth. I can hear a bearing inside the mechanism complaining. The first time I heard it I thought it was a dog screaming in pain. Then I thought perhaps it was the end of the universe. Perhaps we were being cleared out for a new highway. As I located the source of the noise it grew less loud. There was something about it being six feet away that made it smaller in size and less threatening. Now I have headphones so I canít hear the bearing at all. It cries.
Youíre hidden behind the plastic blinds and the window glass. The glass is encased in white wood frames. Dust has settled everywhere. That is something you should do, clean up the dust. You feel the burden of that thing you should do but you do not do it. You find something else to do and the dust piles on another layer. It has a weight, like a cloth shroud dropped around your shoulders. The dust lies like tiny snow on the desktop, on the blades of the fan, on the turntable cover. There will even be dust on the books.
You hear the song of the birdís body through the screen. The song has the weight of the bird body and the feathers. You can feel each vein on each feather through the song. The song pierces the trees and all the air. The weight of a birdís body. How can a song lift such a weight and sustain it? How can it make it soar and carve such figures in air? I feel the song heavy against my ear. The song is maybe more heavy than the bird. There is a tuft of feather on the song. Itís weightless.
The shaft is quivering as moisture soaks into the air outside. That would put me inside which is a good bet given the moisture and all. I had a beer with dinner, something unusual for me. I donít like to drink what with all the meds so a single beer can make me all squinty and tingly. I have taken the last mint from the plastic tin. Think about that one for a bit. The tin is not tin anymore. It is plastic. Can you still squeeze a headphone amplifier into one? Probably, but youíd have to use a strange battery.
The darkness is rolling over me as I try to type here. It is relentless and there is no escape. I will simply be rolled over. Try as one might the day seeps in every morning. It caresses the columns, and slides down the marble steps onto the stones of the street. How many feet must have crossed here to wear it down this way? It canít possibly have been that long. What? A thousand years? Something else is going on. It is a conspiracy. But why? Figure out the why and we have most of the answer to what.
My brain is not working quickly today. My brian is not working. My bran. It is like plowing thick heavy mud, something with a lot of tar in it. Doing it with one of those push plows my father used to use to prepare the garden every year. I remember too many anachronisms. Am I too old already? How did it happen so quickly. That assumes that it has happened which would require a vote of those who really care. And since I am the only one who really cares, it is up to me to decide. I choose youth.
I just saw the movie The Mummy, the re-make with Tom Cruise. My brain is mulling over images in some poems I wrote after seeing the King Tut exhibit in Chicago. Mostly it is those damn yellow reeds and how long will it take us to regain that foothold if we lose the civilization we now have. Civilizations rise and fall and there is little to argue that this civilization will not fall. If it does it will seal many of the avenues that were used by past civilizations. No more easily available metal ores. No easy oil to plunder.
The flower boxes on the deck rail are lush with greenery. Life is continuing to find a way. It always finds a way, just not my way. My life will end but life in general will continue. It will be argued that I will continue in my children and their children. It is surprising how many children you have to have these days to get grandchildren. They just donít reproduce at the rate they used to. Of course that is just counting the children I know of. There are those I donít know of. I wonder about them too sometimes.
Matthew wrote here for a while. Then he died. There was no announcement that Matthew died, no announcement in 100 Words. They had no way of knowing. He just stopped writing and people do that all the time. So there was no pause for Matthewís passing here. He was a good friend. I cried when he died. I cried and screamed, banging my head on the steering wheel because I couldnít go into his funeral. All I could do was sign the book and then drive around Detroit angry that he was gone. That was years ago. I still mourn.
There are still things I cannot write. You would think by now I would have sorted my life out so I could write whatever seeped from my eager fingertips but no. In face there are things that I have written in the past I find myself erasing so they will not be seen by others. I should not even be writing this because it may be read and reacted to. And then where will I hide? There are so few places to hide in my current mode of thinking. That might be a good thing although I canít see it.
My head hurts and my gut hurts. Both are not dull aches but rather are sharp pains of the type that scare me. I think the being scared is worse than the pain, especially since the pain is not yet enough to drive me to the doctor. It is close, but not quite there. I have some dread of what he may do to diagnose and otherwise punish me for coming in, but not so much as the fear of what the pain may mean. Maybe it will go away. That is what I live. Maybe it will go away.
The trees crowd in on each other outside my window. In the park beyond the fence a woman walks laps while a little one whizzes across the basketball court hands held high in the air. No helmet or pads for this one. She will hit hard when she falls and it seems to me that the fall is inevitable; a matter of when rather than if. That is what we used to tell ourselves about our motorcycles and the accidents we would have. It was sobering then too. I donít ride one anymore. I am not sure what the reason.
I hear the voices of the women talking outside. They talk effortlessly as if they were born to it. It does not come easily to meÖthe talking. First I have to think about it and the thinking is a thorny forest with long heavy briars that grab at my feet and tear long bloody stitches in my legs. By the time I am done with the thinking the conversation has most likely passed onto another point or the others have wandered off wondering why I am so rude as to not answer their last observation. I am answering your observation.
I called my mother this morning as usual. I call her every morning to make sure she is still alright. There is not much I can do if she is not alright since I live two hundred miles away. I can call my sister who lives next door. Today my mother was full of speed, speeding away from the door and down the hall to her bedroom, speeding back to the door to let the dog in. She was about to be picked up to be taken to have her hearing aid checked. This was most likely my sister too.
The blinds are closed to keep out the heat, although it is warmer now in here than it is outside. Perhaps I should open the windows again, but I donít know that Iíll be here that long. I have things to do to be sure. I just donít know how much of what I have to do I can stomach doing. The doing is not so bad; rather, it is the anticipation that is the difficult part. Youíd think Iíd just go ahead and do the stuff and get over the anticipation, but it does not work that way somehow.
Itís cool today and the park is filled with the voices of children. I wonder if I will move to Pinckney and miss the voices of the children. Or will I there be filled with the waves of the wind passing over the wetlands. Will I really ride my bicycle there? Most likely not. Still there is a possibility. I have to fix the bathroom here. I donít know why there is so much dread associated with that. It is a feat I can perform. I have done more difficult things in the past. Somewhere something has happened to me.
Today is Fatherís Day. My sister called me from the Nursing home so I could talk with my father. The conversation was short. It always is. I learned what I know about making small talk from him, so neither of us will have much to say. Sometimes he will ask me what Iím driving. Iím still driving the Honda, Dad. It is six years old now, and paid off, and I have no desire to buy a new one. Iíd like to keep this one for a long time. Then too my father is hard of hearing. Thatís a roadblock.
After I talked with my father yesterday my sister snapped a picture of him and sent it to me. He did not look good to me. He didnít have his teeth in and he had this bewildered look on his face. He looked like he was on a roller coaster about ready to go over the top and he was scared. He was sitting next to my brother-in-law who had a look of serenity and happiness on his face. That man oozes serenity and happiness but even that could not take away from the clenched bewilderment in my fatherís face.
I am afraid to go downstairs so I will stay here and type for a while. Why am I afraid to go down the stairs? Well down there I have to face decisions and I have to get ready to face the rest of the day. It is this turning my face into the wind that fills me with dread. Is it fear? Yes, there is fear. I am afraid of something, something besides mortality. I like the soothing of being here. I never realized it before but I like this place. I like the soft music coming from the speakers.
The kids were playing baseball in the park today. It is a cool day with breeze playing across the tree leaves. I am anxious as I nearly always am so that is not new I suppose. It does not require a reason although it may fasten onto things passing by so that it seems to have a reason sometimes. I think it is an organic thing, probably a result of the closed head injury although the injury seems to predate the angst by quite a bit. I donít know what else to make of it though. Itís what it is.
Iíve finished my corrections. In a while Iíll be walking into town for my piano lesson. After I move Iíll have to drive into town for my piano lesson. There will be many changes after the move. I am worried about most of them. I will be okay. It will be okay. I will meet the changes one at a time and none of them will be overwhelming. Some may require the application of money. Others will just take up my time. Sometimes you insist on my doing things a certain way. I could do as well with my way.
I sleep in the chair while the pine trunks rise outside and the peppers grow in the heat and humidity. It rained hard all night with heavy thunder and lightning. When it started you asked if I thought we should put down the umbrella. ďIt has a metal pole,Ē I advised. Then it rained harder and the wind blew lifting the umbrella. ďTime to go put it down,Ē I said. ďIt has a metal pole,Ē you advised warily. It was hard to put down because my hands were slick with lotion and the safety chain was caught around my thumb.
I hear the sirens singing across the city. Send not to see for whom the sirens sing. The swing sets in the park are empty and my last student of the morning is not answering his phone. It rings heavy against my ears. I see the glint of automobiles across the park and know that in some ways I will miss this while looking out across the wetlands, if I can even see the wetlands. I certainly cannot see that far. Maybe I will buy a pair of binoculars to spy on the cranes as they hunt for frightened frogs
The fan buzzes softly pushing air out the window. I have tried it the other way around, pulling air into the room, but it makes too much noise on my microphone that way, so I leave it as an exhaust fan. It cools the room in the summer mornings, gradually losing way to the heat of the day but I am usually done before it gets very warm in here. It is 77 now and I am done so it is another successful tut. I am not sure where I will go into the day from here. Perhaps a walk.
Itís ok just now. The thing is out somewhere else in the house, circling. It has not come to land on my chest, come to feed. Maybe it is out in the park, running laps and growing strong. Perhaps if I went out into the park and ran laps I would have the strength to push it off my chest when it returned. And it will return. It always returns. I have learned this. Once I learned that It always went away. Then I learned that it always come back. I know that perspective means I have probably given up.
I am sleepy now. I might be a little sleepy, a little hungry. This is life, this wanting one thing or another. So much to say about everything and I have said it all about that. It reminds me somehow of a flea market. I am walking out of a tent and into the shade. There is not so much I am wanting. Perhaps I am lonely but that is my fault. I tend to be quiet and donít have much to say. They tell me that the part of my brain with the scar tissue governs the language centers.
The sun is shining and the breeze stirs cool through the window. I am back in the corner in my chair, possibly hiding. That is not an unnatural state for me. It may be unnatural for the human condition, but I suspect we are descended from a long line of creatures who basically lived in fear, crouching in cold damp places afraid of what might lurk outside. Those who went out with sharpened sticks to meet the threats were heroes. Then the heroes learned to turn their sharpened sticks on one another. Was it out of loyalty to their leaders?
The dog on the other side of the park was crying again this morning. Its yelp pierces your consciousness. You learn to not hear the train, the clock, even the doves, but you cannot not hear the crying dog. It will go on that way for an hour or so and then will stop. I think I know which house it comes from. I call it the dog house because dogs bark at you from the windows as you walk by. I have never heard the dog crying when I am walking near the house though, only from over here.
Matthew said I shouldnít write here about suicide. Matthew was still alive and I was working on a series of entries I called one hundred suicide letters. Suicide is messy. There are so few ways to do it where you donít leave a mess, and I would never want to leave a mess. Then too there is the uncertainty. Your chosen method might turn out to be painful or, worse yet, it might leave you alive but incapacitated in some horrible way. A burden to society and an embarrassment to yourself. But I really donít think about suicide very much.
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