The Brigadier


Well.   I am sitting on top of my bed, surveying the still clear floor, watching the bathroom light creep my way.   I am wearing my pajamas though it’s not quite time for bed.  I had a late night of meetings.  Between my twice cooked roast that has become something of a science experiment at this point, my brownies that were a little less under than batter and made with eggs that might have been a bit on the edge, the mostly frozen potstickers for lunch and the goat cheese pizza, I think I’ve given my lead belly a bit of a trial.

There is a little time to think about the fiction.  Tomorrow has another meeting far out in the country with the sort of people I used to be.  Now I am on the outside, so I’m curious.  I wonder if I will have to, or even if I’ll be able to, interpret after such a long time away.   I don’t know.  It’s just another fish in the barrel.  Another corpse on the pile.

I am trying to have a little bit of nowness and not ulcerated concern for the orbiting universe and light that has not yet begun its journey to meet my eyes.

Right now, I should be making the decision or getting closer to making the diet/dating decision.  I guess they are separate issues but in my mind, they go hand-in-hand.   Going to Vegas, considering dating, like being someone who is out there scouring the racks for a man what suits, having all of these fancy dress-up events, it does sort of kick the can forward that maybe my body could use a bit of something right now.  And going to Vegas, working hard on writing and doing things for myself, being a diligent observer of the observable universe, it does sort of bring the question to mind, wouldn’t it be nice to have a partner for all of this…industry?

It is, of course, entirely okay to not engage with these ideas, these invitations.

But is it preferable?  Optimal?  The best we could hope for?

Someone to go to the Ben Howard concert with.  Someone to watch Julie and Jack with and groan with.  Someone to go to Las Vegas with and people watch and drink ridiculous drinks with.

Someone to read my stuff, to keep the story going in their head because they want to be able to talk to me about it.

AND ALL THE REST, AND ALL THE REST! Just in case you thought I was just looking for a friend.  I AIN’T LOOKIN’ FOR A FRIEND, SEE.

Not having so much food or the sort of food that renders me immobile.

Having some energy.

I am thinking about these things, maneuvering around them moreso than really thinking about them, but I am not outright ignoring them.  I think this pit in my stomach is making it hard to know where the worry lives in me.  Like marbles clacking against themselves.

Time for the old bath.  Er…roonie?

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