Dinner was a bowl of half-assed nachos heated in the microwave. I'm out of chips now. I'm out of several things, and low on others, and will have to go to a store soon. It will probably have to be after the rain, which is likely to last through Tuesday. I might aim for late in the week. I so enjoy not shopping that I wish I could go on doing it. Or not doing it. Whatever I mean. I'm not sure anymore.
My unadjusted neck is bringing me increasing misery. Every few days I get a headache. This whole getting old crap is a drag. I wish I'd gone to the beach more when I was younger. I might have died of skin cancer by now and not have had to go through the last couple of years. I enjoyed the beach, even though I couldn't swim. Just lying there in the sun, or the shade of a big umbrella, and listening to the waves was very calming. Standing int he roiling surf was fun too. A receding wave would hollow out the sand under your feet and make it feel like you were going to fall into the ocean. Going to meet Cthulhu. Oblivion. Very relaxing.
I took a shower today and again forgot to trim my hair, because I forgot to put the scissors next to the faucet. Life would be easier if I were less of a muddleheaded dolt. But I guess it's too late now. It can't be helped. But at least I'm enjoying the rain, and I've got some chocolate, and a book about cats to read. I can tolerate life for another boring night I suppose. And tomorrow is another boring day in the mini-metropolis. This place is not really my place, and I guess never will be. What isn't anymore just isn't. So it goes.
by A. F. Moritz
A place belongs to the one who has most deeply
loved it, they said, has hoped in it beyond
its self-corruption. The land, people, the city
is his if his nights are for recalling it,
calling it in tears of aloneness and amazed
thanksgiving: that luck let him kiss it in his childhood,
that it grew into him, is him, that he still wants
to have it, save it, he wonders what it knows
tonight, right now, how it is with that place,
if it's happy, dying, dead. So he went back
carrying his book of that city: a great book,
yet only a dim sketch of his memory,
though in its pages, closed and dark, the alleys
of cracked windows and lintels, and children's paths
through towering weeds behind the empty stores
and under sycamores down to the river, burn
with bright emptiness that in the city were full
discarded bottles, concrete crumbs, and rusted
shavings in broken light. He did not have
a dollar in that place. He could not find
a door to open. He did not know a soul.