Moss is around. Today I walked from a beach, through a "downtown" area (cafe, theater, gas station), a forest, a cemetery, crossed the bridge over the channel, all in the span of about two miles. Could have skiied or something, but chose to get a library card instead. I found a kind of spooky shack with a big board covering most of a wall, fell in love. Fantasized about knocking on the door and offering the current owner a pile of money for it. Dwelling timelessly in a knot of rotting forestry while wild rodents made nests in my hair, cackling to myself, carving faces in the tree bark.
Susan is still in the hospital with a fractured, bleeding skull she can't remember getting. Makes me wonder about those of us who drink and whether we'll have holes in our heads in another twenty years.
I had to pour out the liquor bottles. I mean I had to pour them out, not just throw them away. I imagined flashbacks of drunken times playing over the slow splashing liquid, a Tom Waits score. Gouged out the plastic dribble spouts, whiskey and rum splattered on the countertops. I poured out the bottles, then licked the counters clean. Later, found a can of beer and hid it under the lettuce.
Stunned and reeling, nothing has changed. An undisciplined mind is like a car without wheels. Feeling the tightness of civilization aorund, demanding discipline, improvement, effort. Such a disappointment to family and friends. Boxy shapes and toxins sit on my chest and press down with weight, with real, solid matter. No, I'm not smoking. Wilderness is outside my door.
