It’s an existential morning, this morning. We’re in one warm room and the rest are cold. We’ve cordoned off the living room from the rest of the place and it seems like a desperate little room of temporary comfort on some ship headed on a crash course of a spiritually and materially impoverished future full of gray hair, regret and woe. Smith and I are already picking up the pieces of each other like the ghosts in the movie Beetlejuice. Smith & I have crash landed into each other’s sanctuaries. Thank goodness for the sanctuary but what about the world?

It’s such a dark time of year–November beginning some kind of serious nocturnal thinking or some kind of hunkering down. The celebration is an internal one, Christmas tree fireworks in the darkness of the brainpan. The creeping of the house as though it, too, is thinking and hunkering down. The solidity of the house. The quietude of the house before Smith wakes up into pain.

Cat is so thoroughly asleep on her plush blanket, her creature eye and whiskers competent in comfort.

Me, I’m trying to wake up from numbness, the muffled coccoon I’ve swathed myself in to abey the buffeting of the rocket barelling into the future.

Dripping with the physical, mired in the physical the brain is like a swathed observer with a tinny old-timey radio voice trying to say, “Remember the dream….”

& that’s where I’m at this morn. Reality is telling me to remember to write, to remember to pursue & make the dream tangible.


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