Is it Friday? It doesn't seem like Friday. But then again, the sun has not yet risen, and I have been up for over an hour. Time change? I don't know. But I keep waking up long before dawn.
Meaning. . . I don't have a clue what I am going to write about today. My thoughts are still muzzy, my memory dim. I remember a bowl of noodles yesterday.
Yes. . . I remember. I went downtown to have a bowl of ramen again. This time, the place was packed. The crowd was largely Asian, so I figure I am in the right place for ramen, but there were a lot of Indian and Persians there, too. They were young. I was the old white guy, but I didn't feel odd or out of place this time. Practice. All it takes is practice and a certain joi de virre. I had lost both, but. . . .
I went to mother's. She talked about the drowned child who was resurrected. All the neighbors are wondering about law suits. The kid is in an expensive children's hospital now. Who will be paying? The kid is probably going to need a lifetime of care. The legal aspect is nothing I would have ever considered. The renters? The home owners, probably. Was the pool child proof? Was it up to code? It will be, to quote my mother, "a mess."
I remember this.
Yes. I sent this all around. It is how I feel, I guess. Autumnal. But there is something else in this rendition, too. One of the riffs reminds me of something I can't quite recall. That part is haunting.
I had a single scotch on the deck last night. And a small cheroot. It was raining ever so lightly, so I stood beneath the shelter of the awning over the door like some factory worker on break in the days when people were allowed to smoke.
The light misting continues this morning. The day, according to reports, will be gray.
A misty gray, like my memory. But there is no time but present time. Memory is an activity that occurs in the present. There is no future other the one we imagine. . . which, like memory. . . .
Sometimes I suffer from a lack of both. Sometimes I suffer from too much of each. Either way. . . .
The cat is on the deck now in the misty gray. She missed supper because of the rain. Her boyfriend has come, too. They know when to come. Is it conditioning, or is it memory? They are the same, it seems, explicit and implicit. Names, dates, historical events. I have always had a difficult time.
Atmospheres, auras. . . impressionistic memories are my specialty.
But I must be present now. There are lyrics to that song. The days grow short. September.