Without which I might have been led to question even then the redundancy of the night's causation, of the night's resistance to day even as the waves, on the beach again, crawl up the shore and wrap around my feet. Could I be here on this shore? Again then there is a forced halting. A halting lockstep, the echoes of the farthest front line rippling even here with dull thuds and booms, orange glow on the horizon.
Even then after a turning back or the crenellated afternoon ago that couldn't have been sufficient for even a lackluster lunch, even a paltry sandwich will do. Before though and a little to the left is that high cliff from which we most certainly hurtle ourselves. A quick flight, short fall. But in a minute the role is reversed and again there's the forest afternoon in a long, gauze-lined maze of surgical procedures and infected wounds. A short trip home.
As a field of corn from above at night, I am also countless and blended. My heads are numerous rising here and there in the shadows, where there is neither known nor any unknown, only the rows upon rows of similitude, redundancy, mute vegetal growth. When I move forward, I move much the same. And when I'm still it's as if I'm a spinning top. There is no peace at times like these. We feel them closing in, in numerous/monstrous personifications of their innate hate and depravity. You might smell it on the wind. I can feel it come up from the ground like the odor of a French cheese. It permeates, fills this house of mine, six rooms all smell. The living room: a reek shack. The bathroom: the same. Dining room, bedrooms one, two and three: there's no getting away from it.
The peeled angles offer a certain restraint, a defiance against the long blowing days and the salt air. My turpitude is tranquil here, unfettered and unencumbered. Though I'm certain soon the pilings will fail, dry rot having set in. Already when the wind blows there is a slight rocking sensation. It's only a matter of time. Until then, though, I work away at outdated crossword puzzles.
Summer: A Standard Analysis of Sandwich
The sandwich gone, I am free for the rest of the day, or rather if the night should be, the sun having gone down, I am free to the night or even the day if the sun should have risen thusly as I stood there in the kitchen, light overhead deceiving the morning or the night, as the case may be. The sandwich was left behind, or so I thought, though still I stood in the kitchen. I haven't much else to do on this occasion that is now, save to gather about me the warming embrace of that which is this kitchen, the place where we always seem to wind up lingering. Maybe some unconscious relation to the food that has been prepared in not only this kitchen, but in countless kitchens since the very first kitchen, however little resemblance that first kitchen may have had to this kitchen, or if it could even be called a kitchen in the first place, it being not much more than an assembly of blunt stones and a fire pit, if I may be so bold as to presume, yet nonetheless serving the purpose of a kitchen in the most general sense of the term. So in that regard we are standing with all those who came before us, when we linger in kitchens. We are breaking bread with the first upright. We are sitting down with kings and queens, we are philandering with the filthiest and ascending with the most devout.
Fall: The Foundering
Though without even these lawns, sun soaked in the afternoon, gin and tonics, slowly rolling cars, glinting windscreen piercing an afternoon tranquility, driveways, sweet smell of asphalt hot under the last rays, we lounge here, taking in the last of the day, sipping our cold drinks, thinking: questions? Do we have any? If so, might we mark the afternoon by counting them off like a grocery list? Not likely. More innocent in our gazing, I stick to the glass in hand, its cool sides glistening with beads of sweat as another car passes and I turn to my companion, a veritable shaker, a remorseful dissident, a real rabble-rouser, a malcontent, and I quote: "Man can think in the sense that he possesses the possibility to do so. This possibility alone, however, is no guarantee to us that we are capable of thinking."
Spring: 0 Degrees
When they grow will they remind us of our fathers? The fathers every year go out into the snow and never return. They are replaced by others, ones that come up from the basement where they plan the future. A sign, written in black ink on an old cardboard moving box tacked to the door that leads to the basement, reads: " 'Out with the old, in with the new.' Old American proverb." And they come up after politely knocking, and wait for the mothers to answer. The mothers only answer when the last wave of fathers have pulled on their hats and headed out into the cold with their threadbare overcoats and ineffectual loafers, as if they were merely heading off to work on a balmy Spring morning, and not into waist-deep snowdrifts.
How we look after them when they leave, the rough bristle of their unshaven cheeks against ours already a dimming memory. We watch their backs hunched against the cold, we wonder what the cold must feel like away from the glow of the house, outside the brief aura of light that still emanates from our windows. What happens when they can't see the house anymore? What might they find out there? Could there be other homes and other mothers? Perhaps there is peace out there, cooling quiet tranquility among the leftover trees and rolling hillsides, under the soothing grey blanket of sky that seems to stretch on forever.