Waiting

The only thing I seem able to do lately when I get home from work is to put on some mellow Dylan, and lay down in my “office” which is really our closet turned into my little room. It’s best done with the light turned off so I can pretend the world doesn’t exist except for whatever song is on, and the nasty gold carpet beneath me.

It makes me think of a Wonder Years episode where Kevin is talking about his dad, and you know when he’s had a bad day if he ends the night by staring out into the stars with his telescope, while drinking scotch. I suppose we’re both dreaming about something, and can’t deal with something else. And Kevin, well, Kevin is just tryin to put pieces together to explain why his world is the way it is. If you’re lucky, childhood holds enough mystery to last you till adolescence. But I don’t really know.

I’ve lately just been trying to understand what makes the heart break, what really pulls at heartstrings. To me it’s thinking about what was and wasn’t, thinking about times when I felt I knew myself. I suppose if it’s a strong enough feeling I’ll find my way back to it. For sure I’ve started a painting of a mussel shell, it’s still the beginning, but it’s good to feel sure about putting down some paint, not giving a damn about the result other than I’m going to like looking at it, it’ll be a good damned thing to see that thickly painted shell opening up to me. That’s great.

I suppose a solution is to keep painting, buy a telescope, and take up drinking scotch.

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