Late Night Random
Like John Bender from The Breakfast Club, I have a slow loping gait of which I have tried for years to rid myself. In much the same way some Southerners who are oddly ashamed of their accents try to shed them.
I have Carpenter ants in my house the size of field mice.
The rain falls.
I think I have monkeys in my attic. Whatever is up there is bigger than are squirrels. More agile than are possum. More deliberate even than raccoons. That leaves monkeys. Or homeless people. I am hoping for monkeys. With the exception of their fondness for throwing their own shit at people, I find them fascinating. Sometimes I think they know what I am thinking. Monkeys in general, not my attic monkeys. That would be weird.
I think I am in love with being alone. It is comfortable. And the rarity of comfort is not to be dismissed or unappreciated.
I wear my hair long these days. Certainly too long for my age. But it makes me feel at home with myself. (Again with the welcome commodity of comfort). It does not look particularly good. But neither am I cultivating overt ridiculousness. It simply feels right for now. I think I’ll keep it a while more.
On Monday, I saw The Killers at the Ryman. I saw a little girl on her father’s shoulders. I saw a ten-year old boy asleep in a pew. I saw more beautiful breasts than an old guy’s heart could digest. And I saw the best rock show I’ve seen in 15 years. I returned home happy, buzzed, and sated.
I rode in the backseat of a 2007 BMW 328i on Monday evening. I became one part excitement. One part appreciation. Two parts nostalgia for past aspirations(s). I eventually ran out of what it is that makes up parts. I do so adore the finer things in life. I have reached a point in life where I no longer experience envy (possible?)—but where I am comfortable admitting a dull yearning for material things. I sometimes, however, still regret the inherent apathy that prevents my ability to achieve.
It is late. The rain still falls like applause. It is all I can do to not wake my Boy and bring him to our porch. And remind him—again—that I love him even more than I love the rain. But he is sleeping more sound than I ever will. And, for now, it would be selfish of me to tell him that which he already knows.
I have Carpenter ants in my house the size of field mice.
The rain falls.
I think I have monkeys in my attic. Whatever is up there is bigger than are squirrels. More agile than are possum. More deliberate even than raccoons. That leaves monkeys. Or homeless people. I am hoping for monkeys. With the exception of their fondness for throwing their own shit at people, I find them fascinating. Sometimes I think they know what I am thinking. Monkeys in general, not my attic monkeys. That would be weird.
I think I am in love with being alone. It is comfortable. And the rarity of comfort is not to be dismissed or unappreciated.
I wear my hair long these days. Certainly too long for my age. But it makes me feel at home with myself. (Again with the welcome commodity of comfort). It does not look particularly good. But neither am I cultivating overt ridiculousness. It simply feels right for now. I think I’ll keep it a while more.
On Monday, I saw The Killers at the Ryman. I saw a little girl on her father’s shoulders. I saw a ten-year old boy asleep in a pew. I saw more beautiful breasts than an old guy’s heart could digest. And I saw the best rock show I’ve seen in 15 years. I returned home happy, buzzed, and sated.
I rode in the backseat of a 2007 BMW 328i on Monday evening. I became one part excitement. One part appreciation. Two parts nostalgia for past aspirations(s). I eventually ran out of what it is that makes up parts. I do so adore the finer things in life. I have reached a point in life where I no longer experience envy (possible?)—but where I am comfortable admitting a dull yearning for material things. I sometimes, however, still regret the inherent apathy that prevents my ability to achieve.
It is late. The rain still falls like applause. It is all I can do to not wake my Boy and bring him to our porch. And remind him—again—that I love him even more than I love the rain. But he is sleeping more sound than I ever will. And, for now, it would be selfish of me to tell him that which he already knows.
posted by Ryan at 1:03 AM
1 Comments:
I'm always so happy when I see you've posted. Your style is so wonderful and relaxed.
Post a Comment
<< Home