Although the day has almost expired and the night is bustling about in his black gown and he is holding the candle of the moon up high so as not to trip as he putters about, the fact is I am just getting lively. The cool breeze from the outside makes me hopeful that my mind is not mush but simply overturned by the massive heat wave.
I am going to write until I fall asleep. It is probable that my brother and his family will be at our house every day because my parents are not the most active companions and although I am no marathon runner, I do move occasionally from my potted plant place at the computer. My brother will yap about his life which is as boring as mine, the sister in law will drink tea and we might shop; the nephew and niece will sit in close proximity to younger boy while older boy will ignore the tadpoles for he has outgrown their small pond and is about to be a toad of a man.
I will write until I fall asleep because I have done no writing of any productive sort. I have blathered and postured but certainly I have not sat before a single image and made some interpretations of the flush and glow of it. While I did photograph the garden, it was mostly because I was interested at the flipping over of the bare places into weed cities. Every place that I had soil in from last year has somehow filled itself with a multitude of weeds or legitimate plants from the previous year. The pots are bristling with new life and I didn’t plant most of them.
The hanging plants I did put up are not doing very good and I suspect that they want food. I have set them out and forgot to water them as well so perhaps they are dried out and can’t grow luxuriously as my front neighbor’s Petunia pots are growing. They are making absolutely obscene spectacles of themselves and I am jealous of how healthy they appear compared to my wilted, thin Petunias that longingly extend begging hands to the front neighbor’s Petunias in a futile call for transfusions.
What was this post about? I am so sleepy that I have lost track. Let me go look at the start of this work. I was talking about my brother and his family. They are very much like us and do not do very much but certainly they do more than we do as both the nephew and the niece are mad about hockey and play on teams. It is odd that the Canadians in the USA are playing hockey and the Canadians in Canada are avoiding hockey but I did not see any reason to put the boys in the line of attack of a puck.
I feel like going to bed now.
The books are on the bed as well just in case I have a morsel of energy to read as I head off to sleep.
When the night comes to say his prayers beside my bed, the moon candle will be snuffed out and the books will from uneasy lumps in my bed. My mind will shovel the words out that all day were put there. After I sleep, the books under my pillow will send out tentacles and pierce the eyes and ears. The words that they push through the syringes of their lines will float into the innermost part of me. I will be infused with the rich broth of these readings. I will begin metamorphosis. Or at least this is why I read books—to leave the stage I am in and enter the next one. It may not happen of course. I could still be a grub.