A Return to Philly Thwarted

Picture 85I’d been seated, starring at my monitor, a video advert for the “Jew of Malta” mutely playing, when a spider landed on my arm and began to crawl up the side of my biceps, across the rough terrain of my hair, its thin legs doing their best to find purchase as my hairs, as thick as the legs, propelled the spider back at irregular angles.  Seeing him almost to my sleeve, fearing he’d go under and that I’d crush his tiny fangs past the limits of his invisible jaw into my flesh, I flicked him away onto the window sill.

I’ve been seated, thinking incomplete thoughts, the lot congealed into a neural white noise, for several minutes.  The mark of the video progress bar tells me seven.  The spider lies next to me, now dead.  I hadn’t meant to kill it.  The whole of the day, of the week, seems summed up in that destruction.  I hadn’t meant to cause or allow the ill things that have come lately, but, nonetheless, they come.

Picture 93I did not go to Philadelphia today.  My car is still not ready.  I’ve learned to use the manually transmissioned one well enough, but each hour in which AAA does not call seems an hour prolonged and problems compounded.  I can’t plan anything until I know what things will most demand my time.  What plans I have need be set aside if the pick up time coincides with them.

The fence is going back up.  The man who took it down is now re-erecting it.  I’d tried, but a part was broken, I’d wanted to wait until it was replaced.  He put it up without repair.  This is a common form.  After two days some tools are already missing, so one supposes the fence really had provided some security.

Picture 83The yard is scorched and bare in half nearly as badly as if it’d been burnt.  My remaining bleeding heart, along with most of the ferns, are shredded.  The moss is torn from the ground and gone–

–While writing this AAA has called to state that with all the parts foreseen to need repair repaired, the car still won’t start, and will need additional work.

A storm is coming.  Not in a metaphorical, pretentiously ominous sense, but in the way of weather warnings and smart phone pop-ups.  I’ve always liked the rain.  The storm will soak the ground and begin the process of root’s regrowth.  The ferns will come back, the Bleeding Hearts are replaceable.  With a heavy rain I’ll feel that protected sense of isolation that opaque atmosphere’s lend me.  All of the grand annoyances of the moment will drive me inward, into thought as an escape from the outside world, but inside also is where I go to write.  These seemingly terribly problems will fade and be forgotten and in their place I’ll have the energy and impetus to write.Picture 97

All in all, annoyance and fatigue are not but fodder for writing.

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