(no subject)
Too drunk to write, too dull to write, too...something. Bucolic?
The Big Truck came and brought all our stuff from Dayton. Now this place is jam packed, but the living areas are bearable. My card catalogs are here. My little bit of furniture is here. The House on Hedges Street can burn to the ground for all I care. I was there 2 Saturdays ago for the final time. I thanked the house for sheltering us all those years. I acknowledged that both it and we would be better off parting ways. I felt a little nostalgic, a little melancholic, but I'm so glad to be gone.
Then again, the mornings walking to the bus stop were special. Were lovely, in their way. I do not miss them, but they're right beside me, all season's layers falling to my left, flapping like binders, like pages. But it was me I carried along. It wasn't the street, it was me the whole time.
And now I'm here.
There's no real poetry here. No angst. No friction, only a deep peace. Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens sang the Talking Heads oh years ago, and it's still true, of course it is. There is beauty everywhere, in the dotted daisy weeds and silent standing trees. It's beautiful, so beautiful so why write of it? Peace is dull, though satisfying enough for the inhabitants, but you don't write a novel about satisfaction.
The Big Truck came and brought all our stuff from Dayton. Now this place is jam packed, but the living areas are bearable. My card catalogs are here. My little bit of furniture is here. The House on Hedges Street can burn to the ground for all I care. I was there 2 Saturdays ago for the final time. I thanked the house for sheltering us all those years. I acknowledged that both it and we would be better off parting ways. I felt a little nostalgic, a little melancholic, but I'm so glad to be gone.
Then again, the mornings walking to the bus stop were special. Were lovely, in their way. I do not miss them, but they're right beside me, all season's layers falling to my left, flapping like binders, like pages. But it was me I carried along. It wasn't the street, it was me the whole time.
And now I'm here.
There's no real poetry here. No angst. No friction, only a deep peace. Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens sang the Talking Heads oh years ago, and it's still true, of course it is. There is beauty everywhere, in the dotted daisy weeds and silent standing trees. It's beautiful, so beautiful so why write of it? Peace is dull, though satisfying enough for the inhabitants, but you don't write a novel about satisfaction.