Friday, March 17, 2017

The here of not here


Earlier I wrote a little poem, but it was terrible, so I scrubbed it from the record. The truth is, I started out feeling rather vague this morning, as if I’d just returned from a long, unremembered journey. And so the poem was vague. But how would I know I’d been anywhere, if I couldn’t remember it? Well, that’s the feeling. I wasn’t quite here, so I must have been somewhere else. Sleep? That’s part of it, I suppose. Last night, within a minute of resting my head on the pillow, I was out — not like a light, but simply gone, wiped away, erased, consumed, harvested, set aside, of no further use or interest. Of course I didn’t know it at the time. But that’s the way it seems now. And when I opened my eyes this morning, it wasn’t I who opened them. If a decision was made, I wasn’t the one who made it. But even that is vague. As it should be. Or, as I am more than willing for it to be. I am not on a mission. I am not here to prove anything, or to demonstrate my ability to be clever and wry. I just wonder, that’s all. I did take a walk after breakfast. There were crows and geese. The door of one house opened, and a high school-aged girl stepped out, ready for her walk to school. I smiled and wished her a good morning. She responded in kind, and I could see she was a little surprised and pleased with herself, as if she couldn’t help being gladdened by our greetings. Well, that’s all. If you want more, or think there should be, I’ll leave that more up to you.



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