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One thing to another

Sure, you hate me, but who are you?

Well into winter, no hint of warmth or light from the sun, only the precise metronome stillness of a hard rain.

It’s hard to remember the last day of whatever -- the tides of time slide by without any sound – just relational crap until you map it out and find some kind of human sense in the disordered movements, usually by tying them into loose sheaves of something both explainable and real enough to fool the casual.

All just marks on a stick, and who has time for that?

I remember lighting my cigarette on a gas stove, hair held back with one hand, black light staggers around a Hawaiian kitchen and the belief I’d never die. I remember it like it was yesterday, just like I remember yesterday in the spotty sunshine as the same old music reflected off a dashboard as I sat alone in a work truck waiting for time to pass.

I remember the click of avocados as they separated from the tree over my bedroom. I remember counting the seconds until they exploded on the thin tin roof.  I still remember waiting for the next click as they detached from stem to meat – I’m still waiting in some ways, I’ve always been waiting in others.

I listen for the light, but reality comes in the thunder.

I miss the tin roof and I miss the falling.

Sometimes just the falling -- at times I think that’s all there is, one long fall grasping at things as they pass by.

What’s not left of any of it is the when – the general time of it – I only remember the moments of its passing, and the waiting for the what came next. I can contextualize the past with points from start to finish, and can even tell you the thoughts as they occurred, but what’s missing is the time in which it happened and the energy involved in the movement of my life as it passed from one spot to the next.

On what day did the summer end and the fall begin, and how does the spring come out of winter?


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