The birch in our front yard just dropped a third of its leaves, and many of the rest are yellow. The calendar speaks favorably, and the air's damp warmth should reassure me, yet I'm unsettled.
The events of the last few days, if any, have failed to impress themselves upon my memory. Monday I remember waking from a dream that my brain must've invented as a marvelous distraction, involving slo-mo fight scenes, bottomless pits, and driving tanks on switchbacks, and after stumbling out of bed I wrote for about an hour, in an attempt to scrape the feelings from myself and transfer them to an easily disposable sheet of paper. It didn't work and I haven't thrown the paper away. Tuesday I went to the library and spent most of the day reading, though I also remember detouring through the woods behind the Greenway, getting my shorts bloody from scratches inflicted by my bike's front third gear, and being rather affronted at the sullen gaze of a small dead catfish. Yesterday I read more, finishing All Tomorrow's Parties by William Gibson, which I liked.
And now the pool seems a good idea.
posted on Thursday, June 24, 2004
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