there is more
But first, no, wait, I have a story to tell you.
Today I contemplated all future life, everything that is coming to me at some point ahead. It seemed to be filled to the rafters with walls painted green and an old hunting dog, and something which I have shot mounted above a mantle. A duck, not a deer--for both have natural beauty, and deserve their lives equally, but duck is much better in glaze than venison, which is wretched in anything. An old dog with larger bones than the current old dog--who made mad love to an English springer spaniel today and is still caked in his lover's drool--and real QUIET for once in the outside of a city. This imagined, while seeing the notches in the grass where someone had buried the headstones of a Civil War burial ground--it gave the new owners of the land a yard, but robbed the history entirely. I sat there with the dog on a leash, watching him frolick with this new paramour, wondering if I would be such a lecherous old baddy in years ahead. That is what led me on this contemplation. The verdict on me is not in, there has been no voir dire--my mother has a case on Tuesday, and I hope that it is full of scandal and bile, because she tells me the gory details after the ban of silence is lifted.
In the future I will be a villain of my own devising, all wondering aside. I will have extra income through my various creative facets, among which are biological illustration and ghostwriting, and the meagre life will suffice so long as I can carve out some hectar of my own. The friends that I know, and their specks of intrigue that keep me knocking at their doors, will sustain when money is short and time is long.
Today I worked the land like an honest old coot, chopping down two trees and cursing their mulchy death--they were choking a black walnut tree, I can't stand for that. Then I let my dog hump a spaniel, then I came home to a merlot.
Sales of merlot have been down since 'Sideways'. Sales of pinot have gone up.
I have also booked my flight to Heathrow, and booked a negotiable flight coming back. O'Hare is a bitch to navigate but for the time being I will immerse myself in the flagrant counter-culture Chicago hotel scene. Something like a fairytale in Lake County Illinois. The last time I was there a man played "When I Fall in Love" on an alto flute at the old watertower while I lay on the steps of a building close by. It is always a monster of a journey there and back.
My ears are still ringing. There's no logic to it at all.
Today I contemplated all future life, everything that is coming to me at some point ahead. It seemed to be filled to the rafters with walls painted green and an old hunting dog, and something which I have shot mounted above a mantle. A duck, not a deer--for both have natural beauty, and deserve their lives equally, but duck is much better in glaze than venison, which is wretched in anything. An old dog with larger bones than the current old dog--who made mad love to an English springer spaniel today and is still caked in his lover's drool--and real QUIET for once in the outside of a city. This imagined, while seeing the notches in the grass where someone had buried the headstones of a Civil War burial ground--it gave the new owners of the land a yard, but robbed the history entirely. I sat there with the dog on a leash, watching him frolick with this new paramour, wondering if I would be such a lecherous old baddy in years ahead. That is what led me on this contemplation. The verdict on me is not in, there has been no voir dire--my mother has a case on Tuesday, and I hope that it is full of scandal and bile, because she tells me the gory details after the ban of silence is lifted.
In the future I will be a villain of my own devising, all wondering aside. I will have extra income through my various creative facets, among which are biological illustration and ghostwriting, and the meagre life will suffice so long as I can carve out some hectar of my own. The friends that I know, and their specks of intrigue that keep me knocking at their doors, will sustain when money is short and time is long.
Today I worked the land like an honest old coot, chopping down two trees and cursing their mulchy death--they were choking a black walnut tree, I can't stand for that. Then I let my dog hump a spaniel, then I came home to a merlot.
Sales of merlot have been down since 'Sideways'. Sales of pinot have gone up.
I have also booked my flight to Heathrow, and booked a negotiable flight coming back. O'Hare is a bitch to navigate but for the time being I will immerse myself in the flagrant counter-culture Chicago hotel scene. Something like a fairytale in Lake County Illinois. The last time I was there a man played "When I Fall in Love" on an alto flute at the old watertower while I lay on the steps of a building close by. It is always a monster of a journey there and back.
My ears are still ringing. There's no logic to it at all.