July 29th, 2018

caillebotte_man at his window

Next Time

Over the dry creek and through the drooping woods, to Safeway's store we go. Or went. And it was more through the thick air— thick with distant woods that have lately vanished in puff after puff of smoke. I go away and come back, and other things, transformed, come from away and do not go back. Reality has gotten trapped in a metaphor, and everything comes apart and blows away.

I unpack the bags with the bread and lettuce and sausage and such in them, allowing the mundane to occupy my mind for a few more minutes. Later I will allow the television to occupy my mind, but the occasional whiff of burning wood reminds me of what is disintegrating. Yet the fires are only a small part of what is disintegrating. The greater disintegration— what lit the fires— is out there, everywhere. Things will be dismantled that will never be put back.

The fires will be contained, eventually, and if not will burn themselves out. What will contain the thing that lit the fires? Or will it have to burn itself out?


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