The goat meat was dark and glossy, and lay on the serving plate like a pile of bruises. Three bottles of beer appeared in a single hand, each was different, cold, not unwelcome. Orthodox Easter passed with no mention of Christ. When we left it was nearly dinner though who could eat. There was doubt whether the middle child would stay awake until we were home.
Just shy of where the Westfield River crosses 112, I wrote "we are comprised of memory," and, (intended as ) related, "each day a pressed wafer of bread." Yet as so often is the case with composing while driving the sentences sound precious when reread, simultaneously too ambitious and bland. I can write letters in my head, everything else requires a tool, a sense of time and judgment not mediated by roads (which somehow suggest to me either that anything is possible or nothing matters). The youngest child couldn't fall asleep though she did - you have to, eventually - right as we pulled away from the base of Montgomery Mountain. The fjords - "they look like horses elves would use" - were in a pasture farther off the road than usual. For some reason, I thought longingly of the pheasants I used to see so frequently as a boy.
The spinach was growing near the chimney, the leaves looked like green boot heels. Otherwise the garden proper was only dirt with - after we left anyway - frisbee gouges in it. "Generative eagerness" - I won't forget that phrase anytime soon. This morning, the rain sounds heavy, and corresponds to a desire to sleep for hours. Martindale's trucks grinds where the hill crests. You finish the coffee and recall that in the dream you are accused of obstruction of justice. For what reason is memory sometimes confused with dreams - what is accomplished thereby?
It took me half an hour to write this, recieve this, relay this, whatever. The whole time I wanted something else but now, thinking I should say just what that was, I can't, and it seems to be matter of internal obfuscation, inherent misdirection.
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