Thirteen Six Sixteen

In the back seat of the Suzuki is strapped a large, blue suitcase and a small, brown elephant, belted as if it were alive.  My father is back from Kenya.

The three of us spent a few hours in Bethesda, MD, ostensibly to return my father, who, having been more foreign than domestic over the last ten years, is out of date with the normal mundanities come of living long in the same place, and as such, needed a driver.  We were also meant to do some exploring of what will soon become Mary’s base of operations, but we were late in leaving, and tired.

I spoke little yesterday, almost watching myself, seeing the pervasive quiet and the occasional, irrational outbursts come of petty annoyances, the butterflies crushed by comets, with no interest in interceding on my own behalf, never wishing to take an active role in my own direction.

I’ve been avoiding external thought.  I’ve wanted to leave the gravametric bottom well enough alone, knowing the edge of a cliff pulls, one looks decidedly away.  The edge remains, still pulls, but there’s no better good come of acknowledging it than ignoring it, and all the other trail mates would rather hear anything other than common thoughts on falling down.  So I say as little as I can, because I have little else to say.

I’ve read some other blogs and have returned to an awkward state of being unsure of how and what to write here.  I hate whiners and I don’t like self-congratulatory bloviators.  I just can’t think of something in between, can’t think of a story to tell when life lately hasn’t seemed worth recording.

I rightly fear that long recollections would be boring.

I spend as much time as I can with the kittens.  I like to pretend their well being is all that exists in the world and that when they are contented, all is well.  I watch them play and fall without consequence.  Soft things in a soft and loving space.

I’ve always been swimming up stream, been iron on steel, and I’m wearing out.

I am tired in a way I cannot shake, something beyond the miscommunicating glands and de-oxygenated lungs, something deeper, as if the frame weren’t true at the start, every revolution wears me down micron by millimeter.

I bought a good orbital sander.  I still have some capital left from A.A..  I don’t see writing much in the next few weeks, but I’ll make a large cage for the small cats and reduce the world down to the space in between the ground and the floor, fitted in between the stray thoughts available after the noise of one motor’s wind down and the next part’s loud friction.

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