It’s much hotter here than I had expected, or could have even anticipated. I knew it was going to be humid, but I don’t mind complaining about that, too. On the way to the coffee shop tonight I passed a lush, green lawn which had just been watered, and within five feet of it the temperature dropped a few degrees. It was delightful.
There’s a problem with gnats. I saw it on the news. Haven’t quite lived it, though.
A terrifying notion however, I have been bitten by a flea (or some fleas), which have presumably entered our house via the squirrels that climb past our open windows, up the bricks to the roof.
I have forced myself to leave the house this evening, and go to the coffee shop…where I work. I wrote it years ago when I moved to Philadelphia, and I’ll write it again now:
I’d forgotten the rebuilding,
the gentle touch,
the jumping in of double dutch.
It’s one of my favorite snippets, and it still feels right. It’s so hard starting over, sliding into some one else’s game, already in progress. Get to know the score.
(A flea just jumped off of my arm! What a stray dog I am.)
I had planned on using my new free time writing the great American novel, or whatever English majors do right out of college to keep those successful juices flowing, but I’m like a rag doll. I’ve ruined our new couch. It’s an original 1950’s vintage piece, from a time when the television was not a common household item, and there weren’t even as many channels as we get without cable. Certainly it wasn’t meant to be sat on for hours and hours at a time. Already the fabric is all stretched and warped, the once stiff cushions are bowed and worn in. I’ve caused the couch to age like a pack-a day prostitute, and haven’t even uttered a “Thank you” to it’s green bounty.
I’m a user, of objects and television, and a waster of time.
I have my whole life to finish that book I started last month, right?
The speeding idly through time brings me to this blog. I haven’t been writing at all. Not the great American novel, not a story, not a creative sentence. I haven’t been brutally ripped awake with a wonderful idea for a new story, or put some pretty words together to make a pretty sounding sentence. I’ve stopped knocking, and the words have stopped answering, so I’m just gonna quit knocking and go in. And a blog is born.