Days are rarely greeted with gratitude, the practice is complicated. Stacking stones of irregular shapes, generally those not eroded enough by river water, means for fraught streaks, in a time of performative streaks.
I held those river stones today, at the conclusion of three and a half hours amongst the unrelenting sun, dewy tall grass, and undulating paths. The signs read “Private Property” but the privacy was all for me, shirt and pack off, cool water waiting. For a few moments I was empty, thoughtless! Two hundred and ten minutes (give or take) of working backwards on the concept of yearning, control, and the task of removing years of musty-ness from a jungle jacket. I arrived at no conclusions, so I washed myself in the river before heading home to Harry.
I am unsure what intersection I am trying to arrive at here—these cables from the further edges. Some cross section of my trials on trails, fabrics, textures, sounds, and words of delight. Things of curiosity, tickles of enjoyment, all lacking a direction or cohesive view. A carefully assembled pile of me.
Waning Gibbous
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