I forget about this blog.
This time I hope not to.
I forget the little luxuries of returning to where my parents live.
The… not the silence… but the feeling of isolation that slowly arises from the continual nudging of the wind against the walls as it flows over the nub of a hill that our house is perched upon. The omnipresence of the outside, even when I’m mostly not outside while living here.
When I walk outside in the middle of the night and the sky blazes at me. The house is far enough out from the edge of wherever that the sky has transformed from a container into something like a wilderness to look out into and yet it also stares back. Looking up in that moment is when I do feel like I’m afloat on some ship a-sail in a black sea.
The scent of oil and mushrooms lilts through the air. Bread knife crackling the edge of a baguette as it chops through to deliciousness, and the the room is quiet. That is until there are comments made from the living room, “Skyrim does sound kind of dirty”. And for some reason I notice these details instead of others, as I zone out, gaze zooming out towards the lights, with the wonderful smell of grilling pervasive…
Mary comes and hovers over my shoulder. Somehow my asking “Whatcha doing?” causes her to walk away, which I didn’t originally intend, but soon realize that I did, at least to a degree. Because I didn’t really care for her to see my writing (about her). In that in-between moment of “It’s getting late, what do I need to do still?”, believing there’s nothing left for tonight, but with a nagging feeling that there might be. Tomorrow is a busy day, and I can’t remember just all what needs doing before the morning.
Man, do I want some baguette. Or food of any kind. Maybe a coke?
Coughing and sitting here, listing, in my head all of the things I have to do when I get up early in the morning, and overheating, freaking out a bit, but just only typing. And friends rambling in the background about movies, fighting back and forth about their taste. Sigh. Can’t even think straight.
Saw Django for the second time tonight at least, made me wish there were more good Westerns, and that Tarantino was better than he is. Where did this crazy cough come from? For some reason, I can’t think straight, either. What a horrible blog post.