Pity I can't pack sunsets into that old wooden box of mine, but then again, not everything travels well in wooden boxes.
Last night I stood on the porch and watched what seemed to be the world's longest sunset. I sat there with my cooling drink in hand and took in the Technicolor delights before me and marvelled at the number of glowing burn patterns I registered whenever I closed my eyes. The cloud cover was light but fantastic, the hues orange sherbet and burnt dusk. It was a truly one of the best sunsets I have ever seen, least ways, in that "practically missing all cloud cover" category. There are many unregistered sunset categories out there but as far as a heat saturated, end of day type of one, that qualified particular 'set qualified as a winner.
I came away from that viewing filled with longing and jumped in my car. The heat had been practically unbearable all day long but it was nice enough, finally, for a walk. Got to the Woods and drove around once, figured on seeing a particular stroller on but only saw two old guys walking their tongue wagging dogs. Still too hot even for pooches. Went home and sat in front of the tele, watched Panic in the Year Zero and then let the sweat roll. Oh, so much excitement I have never seen.
The reason for the above narration was not so much to give you a slice of life as it stands, but to let you know, rather, what it is that I want to let go. I've overstayed my welcome in this house of silence, spent too much time pacing it's floors and shifting things about in order to have new insight on my surroundings. I have spent too many minutes packing and unpacking boxes and moving furniture, spent too much time worrying about paint swatches and where plants should go. I know that all those things above are the kinds of actions and movements one should expect when you own a home, but I am tired of doing those things in this house, in this house of spirits. It's time to move that furniture and shift those boxes and dally over paint swatches somewhere else.
See, I was called on that ghosting thing this morning in an email from a friend. I really don't understand why it came it up, but she called me on it as if she had been hiding in my pocket and could read my mental mail. Yesterday I obsessed over you. It all started with that damn grey casserole. For the want of fifty cents I would have called. I drove damn near everywhere I could think of where you might be shopping and strolled big box stores not only for the air con but for the pure chance that you might be about. I blew a quarter of a tank of gas, drove almost fifty miles, over the course of over a day, just to see if I could somehow cross your path. It was all too much, especially for the payoff, which was zero. Nada. Zilch. Says to me that I need a new life, a new place to go. Someplace that isn't quite so haunted, that isn't filled with so many touchstones.
But see, I already have a plan to fill my pocket with Kryptonite before I go. I have a fair sized wooden box that I plan on painting, lining and using for a final resting place for the satchel. It's big enough for the stuff that needs to be packed way. Wide enough for books and letters, small enough to leave out big things like that damn bird bath and the junk that needs to be left behind. I want to stain it, line it the fabric of that famed chambray library shirt. I want to fill it in such a way that it won't shake or rattle, paint it such a way that it'll look like an short end table. Be inconspicuous. Have it blend in, just like we did.
I want that trunk of sorts to be the place where those old dreams reside. I want it to be opened someday when the power of it's contents have been worn down by time. I want it to be sent to you in case anything happens to me, but of course, I would rather have it be opened, somewhat like a time capsule, by the both of us someday when we are old and grey, when our wrinkles and time have null and voided all the anxiety that we caused when we loved hard back in our day.
Meanwhile I have paint to lay down and boxes to pack. I have places to go yet, applications to fill out, places to visit online, if only to see where I am going to next. I will take along my box of Kryptonite to remind me of my past but otherwise I wish to find a place that is relatively ghost free. I want that next place I go to to be filled with the laughter of a my children, the glass clinkings and chair scrapings of my friends. I want it to be a good place to walk, a quick drive to good bookstores and to the neighborhoods of friends. But what I want more than anything is for you to be far away, if only to help me lay down the past that I continue to carry with me. I know I will carry around fewer and fewer things as the years go by that remind me of you, but know, too, that I can unload only so much. In the end it will come down to a nugget in my heart and a wooden box in my attic. Those things will always be here, if anything, to remind me of my mortality, my recklessness and my willingness to love outside the box.
Your WHMB
I came away from that viewing filled with longing and jumped in my car. The heat had been practically unbearable all day long but it was nice enough, finally, for a walk. Got to the Woods and drove around once, figured on seeing a particular stroller on but only saw two old guys walking their tongue wagging dogs. Still too hot even for pooches. Went home and sat in front of the tele, watched Panic in the Year Zero and then let the sweat roll. Oh, so much excitement I have never seen.
The reason for the above narration was not so much to give you a slice of life as it stands, but to let you know, rather, what it is that I want to let go. I've overstayed my welcome in this house of silence, spent too much time pacing it's floors and shifting things about in order to have new insight on my surroundings. I have spent too many minutes packing and unpacking boxes and moving furniture, spent too much time worrying about paint swatches and where plants should go. I know that all those things above are the kinds of actions and movements one should expect when you own a home, but I am tired of doing those things in this house, in this house of spirits. It's time to move that furniture and shift those boxes and dally over paint swatches somewhere else.
See, I was called on that ghosting thing this morning in an email from a friend. I really don't understand why it came it up, but she called me on it as if she had been hiding in my pocket and could read my mental mail. Yesterday I obsessed over you. It all started with that damn grey casserole. For the want of fifty cents I would have called. I drove damn near everywhere I could think of where you might be shopping and strolled big box stores not only for the air con but for the pure chance that you might be about. I blew a quarter of a tank of gas, drove almost fifty miles, over the course of over a day, just to see if I could somehow cross your path. It was all too much, especially for the payoff, which was zero. Nada. Zilch. Says to me that I need a new life, a new place to go. Someplace that isn't quite so haunted, that isn't filled with so many touchstones.
But see, I already have a plan to fill my pocket with Kryptonite before I go. I have a fair sized wooden box that I plan on painting, lining and using for a final resting place for the satchel. It's big enough for the stuff that needs to be packed way. Wide enough for books and letters, small enough to leave out big things like that damn bird bath and the junk that needs to be left behind. I want to stain it, line it the fabric of that famed chambray library shirt. I want to fill it in such a way that it won't shake or rattle, paint it such a way that it'll look like an short end table. Be inconspicuous. Have it blend in, just like we did.
I want that trunk of sorts to be the place where those old dreams reside. I want it to be opened someday when the power of it's contents have been worn down by time. I want it to be sent to you in case anything happens to me, but of course, I would rather have it be opened, somewhat like a time capsule, by the both of us someday when we are old and grey, when our wrinkles and time have null and voided all the anxiety that we caused when we loved hard back in our day.
Meanwhile I have paint to lay down and boxes to pack. I have places to go yet, applications to fill out, places to visit online, if only to see where I am going to next. I will take along my box of Kryptonite to remind me of my past but otherwise I wish to find a place that is relatively ghost free. I want that next place I go to to be filled with the laughter of a my children, the glass clinkings and chair scrapings of my friends. I want it to be a good place to walk, a quick drive to good bookstores and to the neighborhoods of friends. But what I want more than anything is for you to be far away, if only to help me lay down the past that I continue to carry with me. I know I will carry around fewer and fewer things as the years go by that remind me of you, but know, too, that I can unload only so much. In the end it will come down to a nugget in my heart and a wooden box in my attic. Those things will always be here, if anything, to remind me of my mortality, my recklessness and my willingness to love outside the box.
Your WHMB
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