sitting here on a Sunday night, betting that a lot of people think I’ve gone into retirement by now. betting some are replacing garbage bags and setting their alarm clocks without the slightest care in the world, which is fine, ’cause it’s really how things have to be anyway. so I will sit here and write about nothing, as usual, and hope to squeeze my way back into the attention of a few readers. nothing is going on except for the music playing right now. well, this is what I want to say. I don’t know if I can. it comes down to this, sitting on the bed late at night wishing I could buy more time. if I could I say I’d engage it in writing something of worth so my soul’d be saved from . . . sitting on the edge of a Sunday night before work is like sitting on the edge of a cliff knowing you’ll fall in. this is the writing that pulls something out of you. I’m not looking. I can’t see. is it too late? no one can see me. will I die like this? die in some neighborhood unadvanced, die with my doubts, die alone?
I put my neckbeads back on. this means something beyond my understanding. there are some things I love. water. running water. the taste of water. bodies of water. large expansive views of forests, rivers, oceans. I love riding through, or walking through, beautiful Alexandria neighborhoods hoping one day I’ll be in a house just a little bigger than this one. but how do you love these things? how do you fully love these views, these bodies of water. I’m thinking I should dive in. I’m confused if I want to do web design, music, or movies. I don’t know where to throw myself.
time is a serial killer.
went and saw Hannibal. you know me by now. come on, you know I loved that damn movie. the more movies I discover the more I distrust these professional critics.
of course they’re not human, they’re newspaper men.
no nightmares, nothing.
saw the movie and went home
it’s still moving through me
and this is the way it should be
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