What does it mean that I never hear from Monkey any more? I don’t miss him, and to realize this a refreshment like the first cool night at the end of a hot summer. He is an absence like a footprint on the beach, filled in and smoothed by waves.
I am not driven to write in this. I feel tired and aimless with it. Hardly anybody reads it. The pulsing nervous fervor to get everything written down is gone, or resting. Maybe that energy is directed elsewhere. I’ve had strong waking dreams about an on-hold novel, enough to write down, to feel confident about.
Very deep, beneath all the fractured surface strata of to-do lists and what the weather will be like, the substrate has changed. There is a griefless calm, as new as a new color. I don’t think I have felt quite this way before. Even when things up in the crust change, the deep level doesn’t shift. I feel still and when I breathe I do not rattle myself.
Half the country is muggy with surprise heat that will become normal in coming decades, but west of the mountains it is grey and cold. Had snow at my place all week, people say. We want the sun and its clean warmth. We want buds and flowers. I am getting tired of shoes.