2019-07-26

It is not a question I know how to answer. Some lines, some phrases stay lodged, dormant in the mind, in the body, then leap forward to respond to certain environmental cues. Such as sitting at the desk, typing. Such as walking down the stairs of one’s own house. 

At night, we drove to another state but then returned, having left no visible clues, in relation to the house, as to our leaving. What I mean is: the car was in the driveway at night. Imagine two points in time: Before we left and after we returned. There isn’t much more to say about that. 

The bar: bad lighting, chairs artlessly arranged. A man at the door inks the back of our hands. An old man shouts about Chinese laundromats. I drink two watery drinks, feel nothing. 

By the time you read this, I will have forgotten more. 

These days, I find it necessary to provide an accounting of my time. Worked on this yesterday, completed this today. As if not to appear idle, in thought or in action. 

The days pile up. It has already been so long. 

Yesterday, I wandered through an old building, now a new office. Peeked into rooms, climbed up and down stairs. I sat in one light-filled room for a long time. Someone asked me questions and I answered them. When I left there, I sat in different room for a while. 

I do not mean to suggest that my days are unpleasant or regrettable or empty. My diction casts a veil of remorse across my recollections. But these days are days in which I often feel useful, rising to occasions to which I am called, however small or fleeting they might ultimately be.

They reopened the track after several days. I could see, as I approached, there were people moving around. I am always glad for a place where my intentions do not need to be explained to casual observers. 

When I was younger, someone I knew well lived near to the bar we found ourselves in last night. Driving through narrow, tree-lined streets I remembered the route I had walked from the bus to his house. I remembered that there was a time the air there felt soft, that what I felt was softness. A tenderness to the air, to the hours, to the people we were, the ambitions we voiced tentatively, to each other, to the night.