(no subject)
Woodstock is 1354 days old
Blondie and Dagwood are 840 days old
I am proving to be a royal letdown. The idea was to type every day. (To type or write every day, that is.) For the past three-or is it four?-days I haven’t done much. I have done some writing, but it hasn’t come close to totaling the two thousand words I’ve set for myself. And then yesterday I did next to nothing. I had planned on going to bed, waking up early and typing before I left for work, but this never materialized.
I tried to do some… work at work. (Real work that is, not the bullshit I do to get paid.) Riding alone in the truck checking the condition of the fence I was suddenly overcome with a wave of nostalgia. The radio was low and the windows were open. The breeze was off the lake and suddenly I was taken back to Edgewater. The light was just right so that for a few moments it seemed like late summer in the evenings when I was a child. I could even smell the lake and in my mind I could see the dried out seaweed and golden alewives scattered along the sand. So many people thought those fish (or at least their corpses) were a menace, but I never did. It always seemed perfectly natural, as though they should have washed ashore when they did and that they were supposed to be there.
The whole scene was before me, captured in time, brought forward in my mind and I wanted to go home. But home is in the past and one can never go back.
I took some notes in my phone for future reference.
Blondie and Dagwood are 840 days old
I am proving to be a royal letdown. The idea was to type every day. (To type or write every day, that is.) For the past three-or is it four?-days I haven’t done much. I have done some writing, but it hasn’t come close to totaling the two thousand words I’ve set for myself. And then yesterday I did next to nothing. I had planned on going to bed, waking up early and typing before I left for work, but this never materialized.
I tried to do some… work at work. (Real work that is, not the bullshit I do to get paid.) Riding alone in the truck checking the condition of the fence I was suddenly overcome with a wave of nostalgia. The radio was low and the windows were open. The breeze was off the lake and suddenly I was taken back to Edgewater. The light was just right so that for a few moments it seemed like late summer in the evenings when I was a child. I could even smell the lake and in my mind I could see the dried out seaweed and golden alewives scattered along the sand. So many people thought those fish (or at least their corpses) were a menace, but I never did. It always seemed perfectly natural, as though they should have washed ashore when they did and that they were supposed to be there.
The whole scene was before me, captured in time, brought forward in my mind and I wanted to go home. But home is in the past and one can never go back.
I took some notes in my phone for future reference.