wistful listful

1. I’ve abandoned the novel I’d been composing in my head. This is a good thing. Titled “With Dead Flowers in Her Hair,” it deserving of a place between Dostoevsky and Hugo. Its writing required a shovel fit to dig six feet under. But the death of this life would have been fantastically rendered, my greatest work on paper.

2. Bean and boom were particularly sweet. Our morning walk stretched just as morning walks should. We watched our shadows shrink as the sun steadily mounted the sky. In an attempt to be missed, we stayed out past comfort (that wind did bite,) but as usual we did the missing instead. Isn’t it so with lopsided relations?

3. A accompanied us to the farmer’s market. It was his first Saturday free since bean’s birthday. We shared cinnamon walnuts. I ate most of them.

4. On the seventh attempt, I was finally able to express myself (Jimmy Hendrix would be proud.) I believe this means my bank account will be a bit safer. My habit of purchasing a woven wrap to raise my beaten and battered spirit has whittled my finances to a pitiful state.

5. My life is in so many ways so much more than I hoped it would be; it is also so much less. In both cases I am surprised by the discrepancies between my imaginings and reality and wonder at the chain of decisions that have led me here. With regard to the lesser than, I struggle to find a solution. I expect it lies in self-reliance, but I fear the possible manifestations.

6. Much of this is cryptic. But the clues I’ve left, the mile markers I’ve posted, make sense to me. I suppose that’s all that’s important.



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