What it means when the evenings get longer
The clocks moved forward overnight. More light tonight, and the rush to the summer solstice.
I remain behind, in a private tinezone of my own needs and fears and bottomless anxiety. You could arrange the timezones randomly, or move them to all points of compass, and I would be the solo pivot, outside the urgency or notice of anyone else. Just my cat. She notices.
The hours pass but I make no progress. I don't invest in movement or engage in anything other than my own suffering. I have no health and I no longer have anything to love.
Except my cat. She's cool.
I still cook. I made a cod and shrimp and potato stew that's lasted me for four wonderful meals. Red pepper flakes for some zing. Diced sausage bits. I savored each spoonful and thought of times when I dined with others.
When I lived with others. People are so cruel. I don't trust anyone any more. They don't bring love I can use to make myself well. Maybe I don't know the right people—but I really don't think that's it. 52% of you voted for Trump! We suck as a species and I have nothing in common with you. See you at your own firing squad, now that our country endorses that barbarism again. Brutality. Abuse.
I do not need a species like this and I cannot break bread or make peace with your moral rot and solipsistic blindness. I'm afraid to say my ex-wife is awful, like you and in her own violent narcissism.
I will dine alone until I die, with thanks to the producers of these glorious tastes. A storm is coming in Wednesday. I will watch it from my large window and consider deeply what it portends for me, alone forever.
I remain behind, in a private tinezone of my own needs and fears and bottomless anxiety. You could arrange the timezones randomly, or move them to all points of compass, and I would be the solo pivot, outside the urgency or notice of anyone else. Just my cat. She notices.
The hours pass but I make no progress. I don't invest in movement or engage in anything other than my own suffering. I have no health and I no longer have anything to love.
Except my cat. She's cool.
I still cook. I made a cod and shrimp and potato stew that's lasted me for four wonderful meals. Red pepper flakes for some zing. Diced sausage bits. I savored each spoonful and thought of times when I dined with others.
When I lived with others. People are so cruel. I don't trust anyone any more. They don't bring love I can use to make myself well. Maybe I don't know the right people—but I really don't think that's it. 52% of you voted for Trump! We suck as a species and I have nothing in common with you. See you at your own firing squad, now that our country endorses that barbarism again. Brutality. Abuse.
I do not need a species like this and I cannot break bread or make peace with your moral rot and solipsistic blindness. I'm afraid to say my ex-wife is awful, like you and in her own violent narcissism.
I will dine alone until I die, with thanks to the producers of these glorious tastes. A storm is coming in Wednesday. I will watch it from my large window and consider deeply what it portends for me, alone forever.
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