Maybe Something Will Happen

Nada y pues nada.  Campari, soda, and lime over ice.  The heat before the storm.  Mother made me a salad of spring mix, red onion, halved cherry tomatoes and grapes.  I added avocado, kosher salt, olive oil and balsamic vinegar.  Grilled chicken thighs and Brussels sprouts.  I haven't grilled chicken for a long while.  I won't again, I think.  There are many better ways to serve it.  And the Brussels sprouts are better steamed.  The salad was the highlight.  

Then thunder in the distance.  Closer.  Than the storm.  The rain against the windows sounded like hail.  

The lights blink, then the power goes out for a few seconds.  Everything electronic in the house must reset or be reset.  

I go through a new stack of prints on the living room floor.  An impossible number.  I begin to grow weary.  I can't decide.  Who can decide? 

The evening ennui.  The evening fear.  The evening madness.  

Bed.  I never have trouble falling to sleep.  I wake.  Just past midnight.  Good god.  Again at four.  Troubled dreams--or are they thoughts?  Anxiety resides there.  A painful knee.

Up after seven.  Not awake or not well?  Coffee, the news.  I read only the odd things, nothing about politics across the land or around the globe.  Nothing about disasters.  I don't need eyewitness accounts.  

More coffee.  A hunting dog races across my deck, circles around the garden nose to the ground.  I step outside.  He belongs to a couple up the street, but he has only a red paper collar like the ones they put on your wrist in the hospital.  Is it the same dog?  I yell at him, command him to come.  I'm not sure it is.  He jets past me down the alleyway behind the house.  

Then it's time to write.  

Nada y pues nada.  

I'm having lunch with CC today.  Maybe something will happen.