Gulping light in the morning, taking my coffee to the garden to watch sunflowers grow. The heart is a pick-up truck. Bits of straw fall from my shoulders, a dark way forward I am no longer obligated to take.
Fiddling with antique watches. Family discussions about what to do with Dad's train collection, which I can't bring myself to care about. Things fall and end and begin again, it's okay.
I am trying to say something about the current state of my life! I fake sleep and Chrisoula lays a quilt across me, then I am no longer faking. Fugue states and other topics one relegates to not worth writing about. Holding your hand, helping you balance while we cross the river. Eagles and hawks, turkey vultures.
Whatever the heart is, it is approximately located where things are felt most intensely, probably because of how the heart beats faster or slower depending. Swimming across Upper Highland Lake, diving deep into reeds to where the water is cold and shadows.
Remember smoking pot in apple bongs, everyone impressed with how deft I could be with my jack knife and also that I had a jack knife.
We were warned not to lay pennies on the trolley tracks, which was odd because the trolleys no longer ran but the tracks were there, cool and smooth to touch, always making me feel like things were better once and might be again.
The soul of those who read a lot. Modern druids exhaust me, I suspect they exhaust everyone, I think that it somehow validates their practice, exhausting the rest of us.
We live in an Iron Age fantasy.
Nibbling raw spinach at the party, working up the nerve to talk to my aunt, who has Leukemia and is dying, and I am sad and scared of my sadness.
Walter Chandoha's The Mob, somehow my life came to this instead of that, may the gods without exception be praised.
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