10.07.2004
drifts
There are music, strain, soft and strange, drifting to here from not here. I've opened the glassdoor, it slides, there's no screen, there's now a foot of opening where I've opened it to let through the sounds . We've got squirrels quite often in the back, and I'm wondering what I'd do if some of them came in here while I've arranged things like this.
Typing on a laptop sitting at the dining room table in a hardwood chair working from home because I just didn't want to get out of bed in time to miss traffic today. There's plenty, worlds, I can do here without being there, though sadly I'm just not creating one of those sorts of days for myself, those sorts where I push through heaping globs of what it is I'm supposed to be doing. One clear sign: here, I am, here, writing this.
That music's so faint it's nearly invisible. Now it's subsided so that I'm not sure I'm still hearing it at all; though I am very aware of those things my ears detect in the searching: a few sporadic crickets somewhere, a higher constant droning as if from some spectating insect, the humming of the refrigerator, a lower register buzzing from outside somewhere. Ah, and yes, there it is again, waves of what has to be music from a radio lapping the shore then falling away again.
There are skulls, jack-o-lanterns, and witches staring at me from the corner. We (mostly my wife) decorated already for Halloween. It's wonderful, the first time I think this has really felt like home. When we had the apartment there just wasn't enough room. She'd decorate, but it would still feel like our tight little cage with protrusions of orange and black.
There's nowhere to end this one.
