Well, I look forward to them, even though I also kind of fear them. I know you're out there, it's fine. I want you to stay, I always did. When I woke up, the eastern sides of all the maple trees outside the window were a deep brassy red from the sun rising. Shawn's motorcycle was idling, was warming up which meant it was almost six o' clock.
In one dream, at a family reunion in plastic lawn furniture, I said "thanks for sharing but we're not going to talk about that now" and the resultant silence was like tripping before a rain storm.
For about three minutes last night I thought Jake, the oldest dog, had died. He was stiff and wouldn't lift his head sprawled against the foundation. I went inside, stood in the foyer until I realized yes, I myself am breathing, then told Jeremiah (holding R is for Radish) to wait quietly for me in the bedroom. I got a flashlight. Inanely, I turned the light in the car off by re-closing the driver's side door. When I turned back, Jake was looking at me sadly, wearily. He's too young to die, I sort of mentally whispered, then tried to take it back, knowing as I do that nothing triggers an indifferent God's desire to play than that sort of sentimental (and entirely inaccurate) tripe.
But listen: in how many directions can one's mind be pulled before we say okay okay I'll turn off the computer and stop ordering movies from Netflix. Writing on a legal pad in the front lawn recently was almost ecstatic. But then - unrelated I think - the writing itself was void of the physical detail - that sense of landscape - that makes Handke so satisfying, deepening the sense of peril inherent in navigating any spiritual crisis.
In the end it's the counting of sentences that gets me down. Yesterday a young cardinal - or a small cardinal - flew from the red maple to the lilac and then out of sight in the direction of Bob's house and feeders. A backhoe is parked at the air strip and backhoes always signify change, the bigger the better. You send me these short emails - so kind, so formal yet full of feeling - and then later I see you out walking, a strangely marvelous encounter.
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