i feel it is late at night, but according to common agreement, it is only ten thirty at night. i feel tired; i have accomplished things today. though my waking hours were relatively few, it still seems like the short day was way too long. not in a bad way, just that i feel slightly exhausted from all that. all that what? all that whatever.
detailing out a list of what i "did" wouldn't convey the pleasure i felt, the looks i exchanged with the queen or the pumpkin curry we made (and fed to the wife, who came down from her nap to the sweet scent of supper). wouldn't show you how dirty my floor was before i vacuumed it, how on-and-off rain all day made it a curious day to go outside (drizzle or drops? brief respite or further showers?).
i want to share how i took care of myself today, making decisions that suited my health and disposition, mixing my accomplishments with rest and nourishment. i want to show you the slope of my shoulders, seeing in a reflection how calm i may or may not appear. i'm not sure.
i want to hand you the case for wholphin's 11, and tell you i liked "the six-dollar-fifty man", "young love" and "doc ellis and the lsd no-no". that "can we talk" disgusted me and then redeemed itself. i want to laugh about how i could recognize werner herzog's name but didn't know why (it's because of "where the green ants dream"). that the reason i might be blogging at all tonight is that the itch to make my connection with mr herzog and my memory drove me out of a warm and lovely bed to this apple of knowledge.
but even if i say this all so clearly it hurts, who knows what you pick up. only what you want to hear, or if you're healthy, what you need. and who am i to say you should take any more than that?
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