The train approachs

It’s the dark end of October, Time is going to jump back in a couple of weeks, but, no matter what the clock says it takes longer for the light to reach me. Sunlight that is, my light bulbs work just fine, instantaneous, for all intents and purposes, with the flicking of a switch. I’m not sure it’s such a good time to have a watch collection. If they ticked out the time, I might go a little mad. Seems like folks used to hold pocket watches to their ears to see if they needed winding. Most of mine sweep like the ghosts of Dancehall girls across the ballroom floor. Some folks buy a watch just for that sweep of the second hand mesmerized by the smooth glide. Some by a starburst dial that sends light back to where it came. Some by the vagaries of complications, a tourbillon or crescent heart. Some to be the masters of time.

My watch won’t tell me how long the above has been lurking on my desktop. The timestamp might, but, some information is too, too, too … I understand information that is one, one, one is the loneliest information that you ever do. The nights of three dogs are coming. Global Warming gives the advantage to short hair breeds. Pitbull’s will be revered. I understand the Trump administration is trying to pass a national “Global Warming Schmobal Warning” Golfing Holiday on the Tuesday of every month. He also mistook a squirrel for a pit-bull, hit a double eagle (with three mulligans and a change of security advisors) and made the pit-bull the national squirrel and the double eagle the national bird.

Where was I? There was a comedy outfit in late sixties/early seventies call fire sign theater, they had a record; How Can You Be Two Places At Once When You Are Really No-Where At All? I liked the title cut and Don’t Crush That Dwarf; Hand Me The Pliers. That’s neither here nor there, just an awkward segue.

Christ knows how long that shit above has been lurking. Though it is still the dark end of October and it sounds like 2019, so not too long. The leaves have a different texture and color this autumn, it’s like Peach, ripe peach, mostly juicy a bit mealy. There is this one tree, if I approach from south of this house on the same street, that looks like it was painted; a corkscrew, one turn peach, the next green, and the colors rotating as a cork might see them marveling in the beauty of its own destruction. One of the few things made clear to me in my studies of psychology was how much mankind loves its own misery.

I don’t mean collectively, though, that too, we wallow in shit that makes us feel bad, and when it feels too bad, we see a shrink who has us wallow in front of him or her. If we can’t afford one or just don’t want one, either nothing happens or we make more grist for the wallowing mill. Wallow might be too specific and, too, sometimes it’s just learning from one’s mistakes. Once a year married couples celebrate their anniversary, more or less. Come the tenth year or so, most couples that are still together spend most of the year not thinking about it. However, that really shitty breakup before the senior prom? Or summer break in your sophomore year? That’s the Rosebud on your lips on your deathbed, you play that movie over and over throughout the year, whereas the wedding anniversary? It’s short as a newsreel before the feature.

I was going to go somewhere with that but thought better of it. You either know this is true or you need more convincing and I don’t have the heart, the energy or … something else I’m sure, not time, I got that, sex, death, those are the big ones, I either have enough or they aren’t applicable (yeah, ok, I’ve got a surplus of death and sex). Mostly because right at the moment I am suspiciously unmiserable. Y’all know what that means, right? Means I have to finish or delete whatever the hell this entry thing is, cause it ain’t going to last forever.

I drove around looking at leaves on and off the trees early this afternoon. Maybe I should have taken pictures. Not for social fucking media, though, they’d end up there, ahem, here, but because I’m under the impression it’s a different sort of color combination than the last few years; more vibrant, more varied, like the finale at a firework show. Cell phones are not good for us. Late seventies us mere mortals, like, say, me, couldn’t be reached by phone when I was driving looking at autumn, couldn’t take a picture unless I brought a camera, and to tell someone to fuck off and send them a shit emoji I would have to mail a letter saying fuck off with either a drawing (crayon, acrylic, water-color, pastels, or mixed media) or photo of shit. If photo I would skip the googly eyes. Everything was much more deliberate, like, for instance, typos, punctuation or grammatical snafus. Worse still (or better as I seem to be suggesting) To get my fuck offing and shit message across to a group would be much more labor intensive, so much so than one would really need to consider how pissed off one really was. Or, you know, happy, funky, lonely, pregnant, stuff like that.

If it applied to journal entries than I would have already jumped the shark. In 3D and to all my contacts. Be well and don’t get any on ya.