Notes

I'm wondering what I might have to say to you. The man I overheard in the store telling someone on the phone that he was tired of being on pain medication, tired of being slow and dull. Or the fat woman in the next rack over bragging about big money real estate on her cell, her bleached white hair and strained white suit while rummaging through the discount goods jammed together in aisles so narrow empty sleeves catch and drag along behind. Or the younger obese woman leaning distractedly elbowing her grocery cart down the middle by the meat. Another woman at the grocery store trying to back her motorized shopping cart into its parking place like she's got something to prove, sausage thighs straining their stretch denim casings. My fellow citizens. The only one who dared make eye contact all day the guy strung out on pain meds, in the cammo pants and baseball cap, looking every bit like he'd give the distance a shot. For a moment I thought he might say something to me, put his question to somebody else for a change but no. A mechanical voice called me from the library tonight to inform me that my "materials are in". I don't remember which book it might be. I returned "Accordion Crimes" unfinished. Couldn't take two Proulx in a row. The brutality displayed like a nerve pulled out from under a tooth and left to writhe in the open air, punished because it is alive and can, therefore should, suffer. We get enough of that in daily life, don't we? "Suttree", the book I'm reading now is depressing enough. And these two coming not long after reading McCarthy's "The Road" makes the whole world seem hopeless. Dark into dark. My dreams, at least, are better these days after cutting back on the caffiend.