Came across an unexpected reference to my past in a book I am reading for work. A name leaps from the white page and transports

How unnerving that time can shift like that. 

Writing is slow, slow, but an occasional line or phrase that even if useless in itself as a line, provides a point of departure: 

One comes to love, inexplicably, the places they first found love. 

Carried all morning like a koan. 

The morning’s labors: meditation on train stations as sites of desire. 

Emerging from a few immobilizing doubt-filled days. Circling the fallow ground. 

On the one hand: I am too attentive to the moment-by-moment shifts in my own mind. On the other: my own mind is locked cabinet. 

From my notes, from the news: A litter of kittens taped into a cardbox box and buried.

From the news: The body of a Georgia man who was found dead, rolled up in a gymnasium mat, exhumed for the second time. 

The morning’s (other) labors: 

I am here to be with my father. The father I barely know. I get up early. Run through the village and down by the quarry.  He sleeps. His wife boils water in an ancient kettle, stirs coffee powder into it. I don’t know how long I will stay.  

We fight about the weather. “I wouldn’t call that a light rain,” he says. 

At night, he takes me down to the tavern where his friends gather around a table in the back. They drink, play cards, tell stories about the war. Sometimes I stay. Sometimes, I take a stool at the bar instead. There’s always a pile of old newspapers and magazines and I scan through them idly while Kit, behind the bar, pours the gin. 

In the news: a box of kittens taped into a cardbox box and buried. A kid walking through the woods heard mewling. I’m languishing here, but I am not yet ready to leave.