#carawynn

[tallowhq-blog]

Cara here!

please FOLLOW !!

[getgonemag]

CaraWynn: 'A Few Guide You Home.'

11/4/13

Napakiak, AK

To: RWallin

Fr: CaraWynn

This is my feeble attempt to express my gratitude for your friendship, I guess our friendship, because I know even in my absence you don’t forget me. Sometimes I wonder about us--what we would look like with gold teeth, missing teeth...you with long hair again, or a boyfriend even. You famous. Me with a family. The look on your face holding a kid--my kid--horror and awe, losing your breath.

I figure friendships have a life span like stars, a time for shining, a time for exploding, some are dull, some burn hot, some fade and a few guide you home--or to weird corners of the world for what? I guess just to be there. To watch eagles and hawks fight or hitchhike through Mexico. To take turns leading the way. Sulking. Being real. Or not existing. Being each other’s backbone. Days I want to disappear into the ocean. 

I guess you snuck up on me. Winter, drinking, black on black. Those blackouts...blurred morning, brief daylight, then gone. I’m glad you weren’t scared of me. Maybe a little, biking me home.

I think our friendship reminds me of Bridge to Terabithia without the tragic ending, mixed with a video of a convertible; top down, some dub/reggaeton beat on the radio, hot dudes in font, us in back, mini-skirts, dope-ass sunglasses, sunset...going west.

Do I really want responsibilities to slow me down?

I want to scatter myself like dandelion seeds dispersing.

I don’t know what I’d do if we didn’t make time for each other. It’s the most you can ask from a human. To make time when there is none.

This summer you showed me a sketch on a napkin, an image of a tree, a tin can, someone on an end of the wire. I saw what you see in your head. I love that. I wanna be on the other end of that tin can.

Is that cheesy enough? Cause I got that ‘end of field season’ crazy eye, dreaming of learning to dive. Maybe the ocean can explain humans to me.

Love, 

Cara

[lostboyspress-blog]

like you were my kid

To: RWallin

From: CLucas

"today you are going to have lunch with me."

it isn’t a question so much as it’s a demand, and i listen willingly. i obey, take off my coat, put down my work papers, pencil, stretch and join her at her kitchen table.

"i feed you like my kid," she jokes, twinkling. she stands maybe 4 and a half feet—i am a giant in comparison. her hair is straight, jet black, strands of grey mixed in; she moves quick like i’ll change my mind—like i have somewhere else to be. i wouldn’t dare, and i don’t.

she makes us lunch. she pulls ziplock bags from her freezer, a jar filled with a dull yellowish substance, 2 slices of fresh bread, and coffee. 

the first ziplock is filled with dried, smoked smelts. she prepares a smelt by ripping open the belly of the 3 inch beast, peeling off the skin, and picking out the meat; she places pieces of brown flesh in front of me. 

"there, dip it in seal oil, " she instructs. 

i spoon a tablespoon of it into a small dish, like the ones for sushi, and hesitate. i know this smell and i am wary. i let the dry, smoked fish sit in the oil, soaking; then, without hesitation or thought i eat it. 

it’s dense, this combination. that is the only description i have, as the flavor of seal oil is unlike anything we eat, a food without comparison in our palatable spectrum. it’s not bad—not rancid—but pungent and viscous, oil rendered from a sea mammal composed mostly of fat, adapted to live in a world of freezing temperatures. The seals’ world is frozen 80% of the time,  and now that seal is on my tongue, coating my mouth in 100% pure saturated fat.

my host is overjoyed. 

"you eat native food, that’s good. i’m happy to eat with you." she laughs through mouthfuls of seal oil and smelts. i think she is just delighted that i didn’t vomit, choke, or shit myself.

she is 79. she is an elder in her community. 

she looks younger than my mom, who is 64. 

her face is a calm river; a clear reflection, silky smooth—probably from the saturated seal fat—no stress lines from wasted hours in commuter traffic or hassles in grocery store lines, no daily grind reflected in forehead creases. she looks soft and acts tough; a simple life, existing in a harsh climate. she has lived here most her life, and still welcomes me as a stranger at her door and a friend in her home, a traveling gussuk (Yup’ik for white person). 

humming, she nudges the second ziplock in my direction: jerky, king salmon jerky. i pretend to dip it in the seal oil; i just can’t stomach any more—it’s a lubricate my guts don’t understand and my intestines feel like a slip n’slide.

i prefer the dried smoked king salmon strips in bag number 3 and i eat more of these. the strips glisten with oil, but an oil I crave—omega-3’s, fatty acids my body knows, such nutrient rich food for a place so poor in food diversity. it’s a craving I appreciate; my mouth waters for them, like salt when i’m hungover. 

sharing in this tradition humbles me. i know this meal is a result of her hard labor all summer, gathering food for the winter. 

six months of winter. 

i can only imagine winter here. i never stay in the tundra past november…and those two weeks of november can spiral me into a world of depression. the cold, the dark—the wind that sounds like freddy krugar. it’s scary. 

the arctic turns each village into a snow globe,  isolating these communities, these people, from the rest of civilization in a fury of snow and ice. even though this is their land, it’s still a challenging ecosystem, and in the past only salmon kept them alive—literally. the dense, fatty bodies of thechinook were their fuel to wait for spring.

we eat slowly; our hands are oily, and the talk comes naturally. she tells me about her late husband, her two kids, how she was the first person in her village to have running water and a flushing toilet—this year. 

"you can take that honey bucket outside with you and give it to the senator," she declares. now it’s my turn to laugh.

i love her. 

i don’t know her. we come from completely different cultures, but she feeds me like her own kid, that says it all. 

—CaraWynn,  Kwethluk AK, 2013

[getgonemag]

CaraWynn: 'like you were my kid'

To: RWallin 

Fr: CLucas

"today you are going to have lunch with me."

it isn’t a question so much as it’s a demand, and i listen willingly. i obey, take off my coat, put down my work papers, pencil, stretch and join her at her kitchen table.

"i feed you like my kid," she jokes, twinkling. she stands maybe 4 and a half feet—i am a giant in comparison. her hair is straight, jet black, strands of grey mixed in; she moves quick like i’ll change my mind—like i have somewhere else to be. i wouldn’t dare, and i don’t.

she makes us lunch. she pulls ziplock bags from her freezer, a jar filled with a dull yellowish substance, 2 slices of fresh bread, and coffee. 

the first ziplock is filled with dried, smoked smelts. she prepares a smelt by ripping open the belly of the 3 inch beast, peeling off the skin, and picking out the meat; she places pieces of brown flesh in front of me. 

"there, dip it in seal oil, " she instructs. 

i spoon a tablespoon of it into a small dish, like the ones for sushi, and hesitate. i know this smell and i am wary. i let the dry, smoked fish sit in the oil, soaking; then, without hesitation or thought i eat it. 

it’s dense, this combination. that is the only description i have, as the flavor of seal oil is unlike anything we eat, a food without comparison in our palatable spectrum. it’s not bad—not rancid—but pungent and viscous, oil rendered from a sea mammal composed mostly of fat, adapted to live in a world of freezing temperatures. The seals’ world is frozen 80% of the time,  and now that seal is on my tongue, coating my mouth in 100% pure saturated fat.

my host is overjoyed. 

"you eat native food, that’s good. i’m happy to eat with you." she laughs through mouthfuls of seal oil and smelts. i think she is just delighted that i didn’t vomit, choke, or shit myself.

she is 79. she is an elder in her community. 

she looks younger than my mom, who is 64. 

her face is a calm river; a clear reflection, silky smooth—probably from the saturated seal fat—no stress lines from wasted hours in commuter traffic or hassles in grocery store lines, no daily grind reflected in forehead creases. she looks soft and acts tough; a simple life, existing in a harsh climate. she has lived here most her life, and still welcomes me as a stranger at her door and a friend in her home, a traveling gussuk (Yup’ik for white person). 

humming, she nudges the second ziplock in my direction: jerky, king salmon jerky. i pretend to dip it in the seal oil; i just can’t stomach any more—it’s a lubricate my guts don’t understand and my intestines feel like a slip n’slide.

i prefer the dried smoked king salmon strips in bag number 3 and i eat more of these. the strips glisten with oil, but an oil I crave—omega-3’s, fatty acids my body knows, such nutrient rich food for a place so poor in food diversity. it’s a craving I appreciate; my mouth waters for them, like salt when i’m hungover. 

sharing in this tradition humbles me. i know this meal is a result of her hard labor all summer, gathering food for the winter. 

six months of winter. 

i can only imagine winter here. i never stay in the tundra past november…and those two weeks of november can spiral me into a world of depression. the cold, the dark—the wind that sounds like freddy krugar. it’s scary. 

the arctic turns each village into a snow globe,  isolating these communities, these people, from the rest of civilization in a fury of snow and ice. even though this is their land, it’s still a challenging ecosystem, and in the past only salmon kept them alive—literally. the dense, fatty bodies of thechinook were their fuel to wait for spring.

we eat slowly; our hands are oily, and the talk comes naturally. she tells me about her late husband, her two kids, how she was the first person in her village to have running water and a flushing toilet—this year. 

"you can take that honey bucket outside with you and give it to the senator," she declares. now it’s my turn to laugh.

i love her. 

i don’t know her. we come from completely different cultures, but she feeds me like her own kid, that says it all. 

—CaraWynn,  Kwethluk AK, 2013

[lostboyslive]

like you were my kid

To: RWallin

From: CLucas

"today you are going to have lunch with me."

it isn't a question so much as it's a demand, and i listen willingly. i obey, take off my coat, put down my work papers, pencil, stretch and join her at her kitchen table.

"i feed you like my kid," she jokes, twinkling. she stands maybe 4 and a half feet--i am a giant in comparison. her hair is straight, jet black, strands of grey mixed in; she moves quick like i'll change my mind--like i have somewhere else to be. i wouldn't dare, and i don't.

she makes us lunch. she pulls ziplock bags from her freezer, a jar filled with a dull yellowish substance, 2 slices of fresh bread, and coffee. 

the first ziplock is filled with dried, smoked smelts. she prepares a smelt by ripping open the belly of the 3 inch beast, peeling off the skin, and picking out the meat; she places pieces of brown flesh in front of me. 

"there, dip it in seal oil, " she instructs. 

i spoon a tablespoon of it into a small dish, like the ones for sushi, and hesitate. i know this smell and i am wary. i let the dry, smoked fish sit in the oil, soaking; then, without hesitation or thought i eat it. 

it’s dense, this combination. that is the only description i have, as the flavor of seal oil is unlike anything we eat, a food without comparison in our palatable spectrum. it's not bad--not rancid--but pungent and viscous, oil rendered from a sea mammal composed mostly of fat, adapted to live in a world of freezing temperatures. The seals’ world is frozen 80% of the time,  and now that seal is on my tongue, coating my mouth in 100% pure saturated fat.

my host is overjoyed. 

"you eat native food, that's good. i'm happy to eat with you." she laughs through mouthfuls of seal oil and smelts. i think she is just delighted that i didn't vomit, choke, or shit myself.

she is 79. she is an elder in her community. 

she looks younger than my mom, who is 64. 

her face is a calm river; a clear reflection, silky smooth--probably from the saturated seal fat--no stress lines from wasted hours in commuter traffic or hassles in grocery store lines, no daily grind reflected in forehead creases. she looks soft and acts tough; a simple life, existing in a harsh climate. she has lived here most her life, and still welcomes me as a stranger at her door and a friend in her home, a traveling gussuk (Yup'ik for white person). 

humming, she nudges the second ziplock in my direction: jerky, king salmon jerky. i pretend to dip it in the seal oil; i just can't stomach any more--it’s a lubricate my guts don't understand and my intestines feel like a slip n'slide.

i prefer the dried smoked king salmon strips in bag number 3 and i eat more of these. the strips glisten with oil, but an oil I crave--omega-3's, fatty acids my body knows, such nutrient rich food for a place so poor in food diversity. it’s a craving I appreciate; my mouth waters for them, like salt when i'm hungover. 

sharing in this tradition humbles me. i know this meal is a result of her hard labor all summer, gathering food for the winter. 

six months of winter. 

i can only imagine winter here. i never stay in the tundra past november...and those two weeks of november can spiral me into a world of depression. the cold, the dark--the wind that sounds like freddy krugar. it's scary. 

the arctic turns each village into a snow globe,  isolating these communities, these people, from the rest of civilization in a fury of snow and ice. even though this is their land, it's still a challenging ecosystem, and in the past only salmon kept them alive--literally. the dense, fatty bodies of the chinook were their fuel to wait for spring.

we eat slowly; our hands are oily, and the talk comes naturally. she tells me about her late husband, her two kids, how she was the first person in her village to have running water and a flushing toilet--this year. 

"you can take that honey bucket outside with you and give it to the senator," she declares. now it's my turn to laugh.

i love her. 

i don't know her. we come from completely different cultures, but she feeds me like her own kid, that says it all. 

--CaraWynn,  Kwethluk AK, 2013

[lostboyspress-blog]

we don't exist right now.

To: JVerduzco, 7/7/13

Fr: RWallin/CaraWynn

  “we don’t exist right now…kinda nice, isn’t it?” the words drift back over her shoulder on a cold blast of steam and i smile in the dark. half because she’s right, half because i’m not sure i want her to be. 4am and we’re ghosting around a loading dock, dirty and tired at the end of the world—an end of the world.

a desolate spur of western alaska. salmon and shorebirds and the “just add money” armature of industry. this is where things come to disappear.

the place itself is a paradox—a less glamorous version of that giant hand sculpture protruding from the chilean desert; an inexplicable, sprawling thing sulking here in the tundra, square angles harsh and conspicuous against the hazy flatness of moss and sea. color is a whole new animal. sound and fury.

sharp green—needles behind your eyes and the scent of ginger.

smoke blue— a dry breeze, heaving lungs, dust shaken from hair.

rust orange and ochre-- bitter and mechanical like chewing the side of your thumb after an oil change.

flowers are everywhere, low and tiny. an explosion of pink/white/yellow/violet. the air faint but heady with the faded  honey/lavender of a quilt washed 800 times. sweat. sun. rain

the sun sustains life and will eventually kill us all if humans make it that long. if we don’t self-destruct. it’s refreshing to know the sun is already middle-aged. half way through its life cycle. we got about 2 billion years. makes the fact i missed that boat today almost inconsequential. makes other stars less important cause they are. how many stars can support this much bullshit?

“I just want to bury my dog and go home.”

it’s an off-center scrawl, pages from anything else in my notebook—means i heard it somewhere and liked it enough to write it down. i remember the voice—a man’s, older, quiet and frayed—and maybe what he was wearing…that he held something in his hands, that the place was too brightly lit. not much more. it’s unusual—having to search for a memory. usually i can’t avoid them.

a handful of sparse, folky chords and that out-of-style, balls in a vise, justin vernon indie whine and i’ll be in portland, 2008 maybe, sardined into a window ledge at holocene with jess and travis (still in love at the time). skinny love. and pin-drop silence. they talked about it for hours, for years, stoned and laying on the rug while it rained and i paced over creaky floorboards trying to decide when i’d be leaving, and to where.

i remember one time traveling rose and i were trying to decide where to go next. back to el salvador so she could re-unite with the gum salesman (chiclets to be exact—chiclets on chicken buses) or advance north to the mountains of guatemala. we made a list—where next. we wound up going forward, north, but i will always have this nagging feeling of what would’ve happened if we went back to Santa Ana? it would’ve only taken a few days travel time, it could’ve been true love. instead we followed the ex-professional soccer player to antigua where i self-destructed slightly and drank all the whiskey and made up regrets for the year. follow your guts. next time maybe the pro-con list would get us closer to mexico and eventually reunited with friends, but following your traveling partner’s instinct may have been worth the adventure of going back the way we came. it doesn’t always have to be a new city, a new volcano, a new country. maybe familiar, same street corner, same chicken stand, returning home, isn’t failure if you wanna be there.

in the end it doesn’t much matter—what you want, where you are…nature doesn’t care, right? isn’t that our tag-line this season? we’ll say it laughing, picking at piles of bleached bones, at spilled coffee and rotting vegetables. you are “here” (map of ak). you leave footprints that disappear, you have a shadow no one sees. fucking revel in it.

sometimes i used to look at my life, at my lack of responsibility, and i’d get this tight cottony feeling in my throat/chest—the kind where my head starts pounding and my stomach turns and all i can taste is blood and time. i’d feel like i fucked up and almost wish i were a little dumber, so i could stop wondering if i’d missed the bus to adulthood.

“…what’s in that tupperware container? you’re decomposing a bird, aren’t you?” i did miss the bus. I’m not, incidentally—i’m rehydrating some shiitake mushrooms for soup, but i give it a longish pause anyway. ‘would that bother you?” i ask casually and she shrugs. “no, i’d just be jealous.” at least i’m in good company.  “are you drinking lemon juice?” “you know…sometimes you just want to feel different.”

sometimes you just want a kick in the ribs. a reminder you’re human. this is the point at which i usually begin making bad decisions. actually, i wouldn’t even call it that, because i don’t tend to regret things. maybe i’m not human after all. oddly enough it doesn’t concern me, just means i don’t have to worry much about desire or failure, i can assume they’re both relative, situational and at least 1/2 bullshit. i’m okay with that. is it apathy? is it dangerous? maybe. i dunno. kinda doubt it. sometimes you’d just rather dance to prince than attend you own graduation.

“i love you yoga mat.” that is the story of my college graduation. i was 28, my hand was infected because after my last final, Probability 301, I just had to go out downtown, get blacked out drunk with my buddy Stephen, and decide to race him to the next bar (the polar)…but all i did was run as fast as i could right into the pavement, landing all 160 drunk lbs on my hand….and i refused to wash it.

i woke up late for my graduation party, bloodshot eyes, bloody hand stuck to the nightdress i'd attempted to take off, one boot on, half in my bed. fucking classy. i called my friend to come clean me up and to bring cocaine. the only way to bounce back. i got to the bar i’d spent the last 3 years working at, slinging bud lite to pay tuition, books, also a good way to get free drinks.

anyway, the party was a success, drunk speeches were made, i stayed high partly to numb the pain and to drown my spite for my boyfriend who wasn’t there, people like me don’t go to actual graduation—i just spent 4 years paying for a BS, last thing i’m gonna do is spend more money on a cap & gown or stand in another line. no more lines, hoops, or inspirational academic speeches.

so anyway, my absent boyfriend bought me a yoga mat in celebration of my success. he told me had boughten me an ipad but returned it. i’d been demoted from ipad to yoga mat. he was in medical school so perhaps my undergrad was only deserving of a plastic mat to sweat on. i’ll never know. we broke up shortly after i graduated. i’d spent years waiting to have one day to myself to appreciate my ability to think still, and hand in papers on time, but felt robbed somehow of closure.

next time i wanna celebrate an achievement i’ll crawl into a cave and sit in silence.

….so pretty much what we’re doing right now? …cellblock 4, platinum pen.

RW

CWL

[lostboyspress-blog]

Terror. Despair. Loneliness. Drysuits.

  To: PConstantini, 6/21/13

Fr: CaraWynn/RWalin

  Terror. Despair. Loneliness. Drysuits.

    Well Rose just fucked that up for me, if I don’t start a letter with “dear _____”

I can’t continue writing, nothing comes to mind, I draw a blank, the whiteness of the page intimidates me I begin to worry about my handwriting then I crumble the page and storm off, except here, there is no where to storm off to…..

Brownies, a stray dog, hope.

Welcome to the george river weir week 2

  So we’ve been researching herpes, lately--one of those things that happens, I guess, when you lose access to the outside world, but still have google and a government issued laptop. What they think they know later may startle them. (ps. The dog does not have herpes).

  We’ve been discussing in depth the characters of the hangover and trying to decide who’s more like who in the movie, it’s been painful but we’ve concluded Rose would be Alan (lone wolf pack meets wolf pack) and I , well, I wanted to be Phil but then had to admit I would pull out my own tooth if someone tried to tell me I wasn’t a good enough dentist to pull out my own tooth hence I’m Stu. Tonight though we are going to burn our trash and the gross collection of rotting meat we have out on the porch. We decided if we start the fire with used motor oil and than add Bbq charcol the fire will burn hot enough to disinergrate the green ribs and  smoldering plastic, love the wilderness and all that is wild and free, plus burning garbage.

  Coming out here (or even just back to Alaska) always feels subtly like traveling through time; not in a literal cross-bows and tesla coils sense per se...just an odd collision with an earlier version of my own mind; either that or it’s just the groundhog day/field camp phenomenon--id we have that conversation twice? Was I talking out loud? Who’s sock is this? Is it cheating to cross today off if it’s after midnight?

  My eyes are burning, they burn in the morning, the sky is thick with smoke, they burn at midnight because the damn sun won’t set, why can’t it just quit? I quit, lots of things, I quit relationships like the fat kid quits gym memberships like the United States quit the U.N. doesn’t look cool but fuck it feels good, or it’s so embarrassing quitting is the only option, but let’s face it, quitting is relative to the task at hand and we all need more goals like I needed that ex-Guatemalan soccer player….

  Actually, he was still Guatemalan, just not really a soccer player anymore, But that didn’t make drunk bathroom sex any less attractive. The point is priorities are an odd bird--sometimes you run them down and everything is so much more fucked up and less satisfying then it should be, but you still come out of it laughing and shit’s ok. This is why I keep making ridiculous life choices. Maybe. Maybe I’m too good at seeing the ‘funny’ in all my dumb moves, and I forget to learn from them and do better. Maybe I’m too dumb to be bummed/dissatisfied enough to do anything that resembles a logical human endeavor to anyone else. Fuck.

  Fuck. I wish I knew what my next endeavor will be, can I go the next 6 months thoughtless as to my future plans? Each summer spent previously plotting winter escape, endeavors of the heart adventures totally unnecessary to most, the rest well those get it, subdued this time by house projects, waiting for me, my mind can’t seem to wander around, it is stagnant. Is this what I’ve been waiting for? Not thinking past tomorrow, and what I should bbq for Jack (the village mutt stray we adopted). Are stagnant and waiting the same thing?

  Like the weird menopause bouquet in that ad we cut the crotch out of, “have you resorted to this?” I’m gonna say yeah. Gonna say waiting is mildew. Waiting is leftover yogurt at 94 degrees. Waiting fucking sucks, the upside is that maybe nobody really has to… that is where we break out obnoxious tea-bag pearls of wisdom… not quite. But the being here--if we can do that--is worth something; presence and waiting are not the same.

  CWL

RW

[getgonemag]

Terror. Despair. Loneliness. Drysuits.

To: PConstantini, 6/21/13

Terror. Despair. Loneliness. Drysuits.

Well Rose just fucked that up for me, if I don’t start a letter with “dear _____”

I can’t continue writing, nothing comes to mind, I draw a blank, the whiteness of the page intimidates me I begin to worry about my handwriting then I crumble the page and storm off, except here, there is no where to storm off to…..

Brownies, a stray dog, hope.

Welcome to the george river weir week 2

So we’ve been researching herpes, lately--one of those things that happens, I guess, when you lose access to the outside world, but still have google and a government issued laptop. What they think they know later may startle them. (ps. The dog does not have herpes).

We’ve been discussing in depth the characters of the hangover and trying to decide who’s more like who in the movie, it’s been painful but we’ve concluded Rose would be Alan (lone wolf pack meets wolf pack) and I , well, I wanted to be Phil but then had to admit I would pull out my own tooth if someone tried to tell me I wasn’t a good enough dentist to pull out my own tooth hence I’m Stu. Tonight though we are going to burn our trash and the gross collection of rotting meat we have out on the porch. We decided if we start the fire with used motor oil and than add charcoal the fire will burn hot enough to disinergrate the green ribs and smoldering plastic, love the wilderness and all that is wild and free, plus burning garbage.

Coming out here (or even just back to Alaska) always feels subtly like traveling through time; not in a literal cross-bows and tesla coils sense per se...just an odd collision with an earlier version of my own mind; either that or it’s just the groundhog day/field camp phenomenon--Did we have that conversation twice? Was I talking out loud? Who’s sock is this? Is it cheating to cross today off if it’s after midnight?

My eyes are buring, they burn in the morning, the sky is thick with smoke, they burn at midnight because the damn sun won’t set, why can’t it just quit? I quit, lots of things, I quit relationships like the fat kid quits gym memberships like the United States quit the U.N. doesn’t look cool but fuck it feels good, or it’s so embarrassing quitting is the only option, but let’s face it, quitting is relative to the task at hand and we all need more goals like I needed that ex-Guatemalan soccer player….

Actually, he was still Guatemalan, just not really a soccer player anymore, But that didn’t make drunk bathroom sex any less attractive. The point is priorities are an odd bird--sometimes you run them down and everything is so much more fucked up and less satisfying than it should be, but you still come out of it laughing and shit’s ok. This is why I keep making ridiculous life choices. Maybe. Maybe I’m too good at seeing the ‘funny’ in all my dumb moves, and I forget to learn from them and do better. Maybe I’m too dumb to be bummed/dissatisfied enough to do anything that resembles a logical human endeavor to anyone else. Fuck.

Fuck. I wish I knew what my next endeavor will be, can I go the next 6 months thoughtless as to my future plans? Each summer spent previously plotting winter escape, endeavors of the heart adventures totally unnecessary to most, the rest well those get it, subdued this time by house projects, waiting for me, my mind can’t seem to wander around, it is stagnant. Is this what I’ve been waiting for? Not thinking past tomorrow, and what I should bbq for Jack (the village mutt stray we adopted). Are stagnation and waiting the same thing?

Like the weird menopause bouquet in that ad we cut the crotch out of, “have you resorted to this?” I’m gonna say yeah. Gonna say waiting is mildew. Waiting is leftover yogurt at 94 degrees. Waiting fucking sucks, the upside is that maybe nobody really has to….The being here--if we can do that--is worth something; presence and waiting are not the same.

CWL

RW