Wednesday, July 16, 2008
FROM MORNING DRIVE JOURNAL
JULY 17, 2002
A warm day yesterday, hot breath but not unbearable. We expect more today: we hope for summer all year and it's here! it's here!
Every day there is a reason to rise early; every day there is another map of the world re-drawn; every day a new experience, or previous experience re-tested; a re-test re-tested. The same old thing is only the same old thing if you're not paying attention.
A side note: M. is at a conference in Madison. I am in Fairwater. The place is not the same place when she's not here. Her not being here changes the place. Where we are defines our being and we define the place we are. The wind blows, and every day is different.
There's no wind in the flag at the cemetery. A dobro on the radio. A dead racoon just out of town. Haze in all directions. Sea gulls a white blaze in an empty field. A skunk dead farther north, exactly on the centerline of the highway.
At Five Corners, confusion over who should go through the intersection first. I stopped first, I think, but the other fellow wants to go. We both stop, we look at each other, I wave him through. He's upset - about what? - and gives me the finger. Life is too short to get that upset about this, fella!
JULY 17, 2002
A warm day yesterday, hot breath but not unbearable. We expect more today: we hope for summer all year and it's here! it's here!
Every day there is a reason to rise early; every day there is another map of the world re-drawn; every day a new experience, or previous experience re-tested; a re-test re-tested. The same old thing is only the same old thing if you're not paying attention.
A side note: M. is at a conference in Madison. I am in Fairwater. The place is not the same place when she's not here. Her not being here changes the place. Where we are defines our being and we define the place we are. The wind blows, and every day is different.
There's no wind in the flag at the cemetery. A dobro on the radio. A dead racoon just out of town. Haze in all directions. Sea gulls a white blaze in an empty field. A skunk dead farther north, exactly on the centerline of the highway.
At Five Corners, confusion over who should go through the intersection first. I stopped first, I think, but the other fellow wants to go. We both stop, we look at each other, I wave him through. He's upset - about what? - and gives me the finger. Life is too short to get that upset about this, fella!
