Too Late Now, Charlie


Watching William Daniels and the gentleman from Pennsylvania fight with canes while someone in the complex shoots off unimpressive sounding fireworks.  We have been on a far journey and returned back home to the dark haunts and loud fans that make up summer evenings around these parts.

It is Saturday, it is the fourth of July.  There are no quality patriotic shows on the television so after ranging today, we came back to parents’ house, and I made alcoholic beverages.  The Chi-Chi recipe just became a straight pina colada recipe with a little shot of rum that couldn’t knock a dust mite on its bum, but was enough to set me to giggles.  I’d forgotten giggles.

The fireworks are not visible here at any angle.  Like everything else in the universe, I’m sure if I took a few seconds I could find a compelling fireworks show to watch online, but the random pop and fizzle is enough to feel centered in the holiday.  I do, try, you know to absorb the national vibe.  To commune with the ideals that are bandied about, that are claimed, that are iced on cupcake cakes and sold across America in advance of the 4th.    In fact, we did about the most patriotic activity there is these days, we went shopping.

I didn’t realize that in the process of updating this house, I would put myself on a quest.   I am looking not just for a writing desk, but for THE writing desk and so an antiques market and a high-end Pier One and an IKEA were all attempted in search for some place to get me up out of this supine lifestyle and into something approaching adult behavior.  It needs to have character, heart.  You’re not going to find character in and amongst the Swedish meatballs, apparently.  It has to be aged, but not too aged, neither too big nor too small, room to get my legs under it, small enough not to block the window entirely.   I realize that it won’t go with anything now and everything else must be replaced.   All the themes are up in the air, maybe it’ll be nautical or mission or, French Country, and really, I just need a desk to get up out of this bed.  But if you’re going to spend money on a thing, nowadays, shouldn’t it be something that would actually adorn the living space and not just be another flat-pack soulless surface.

These are things that drive me to drink.   God, I don’t want to be that kind of person, but the dilemma remains.

Now, I gather up West Wing clips and think that maybe this is writing.  Maybe this is illuminating.  I know…that what needs to be done is silence and work.  But I can’t seem to hack either, so I will offer it up to the moon, to the navy blue and not quite black sky.  This offering of awkward self-reflection.  Of attempting to please a thousand hearts at once and falling through the middle.  To the inside of an inkwell, where we cannot make out day or night or breath from flesh.

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