rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

The Strangeness

There isn't a whole lot of quiet here. There isn't much that's familiar. A Sunday when I'd have bought my groceries and taken them home and put them away, then spent some time on the Internet and then fixed dinner, then settled down with the non-speaking cats to watch a few hours of PBS, is now a day when there is football on television and people gabbing, antics from a dog that a nephew brings over, then a meal that isn't like anything I would have eaten, and more gabbing, and then reruns of Johnny Carson telling stupid jokes that weren't funny even in the 1970s when they were new.

Then everybody goes to bed early but I don't have the room with the computer to myself because the house is crowded, and I have to go to bed too and not go to sleep for hours.It's noisy when I want quiet, and I must be quiet when I'd like to be active.

All this complaining sounds churlish, especially when I'm so much better off than a great many of my fellow evacuees, but everything is so strange and out of place that I'm getting more than a bit crazy. I need my routine, and it feel like I'll never get it back. I can't think clearly in this atmosphere, and can't concentrate on getting anything done.

So far I can't even imagine where I will go from here. Paradise always felt alien to me, but I had adjusted and grown accustomed to it. I have been out of the world so long that every place seems alien to me now, and I haven't adjusted to any of it, and have no idea if I can accommodate myself to it. I can't make plans when I don't even know if I have any cats anymore. I certainly couldn't have any here, but if I knew there was a cat to look after I'd have an idea of what sort of place to go looking for. I'm not sure I could find such a place, but at least I could look.

Hell, it's all still a mess.

There's a freeze warning here tonight. It will be worse on the ridge. Poor,miserable cats.

Sunday Verse


by Lorna Crozier

Walking into wind, I lean into my mother's muskrat coat;
around the cuffs her wristbones have worn away the fur.

If we stood still we'd disappear. There's no up or down,
no houses with their windows lit. The only noise is wind

and what's inside us. When we get home my father
will be there or not. No one ever looks for us.

I could lie down and stay right here where snow is all
that happens, and silence isn't loneliness just cold

not talking. My mother tugs at me and won't let go.
Then stops to find her bearings. In our hoods of stars

we don't know if anyone will understand
the tongue we speak, so far we are from home.


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