Sunday, July 14

About midmorning I go into work, for whatever reason. Not really whatever reason. A specific one: The internet is there, full of things that I usually think about. Which is to say I hope that I might find some missing pieces of my brain if I have a little time alone with the network.

It’s quiet at the office on weekends. Like most times when I find myself there without anyone to hassle me about things I’ve promised them, I do a little work. Dab at the code here and there. Think about half a dozen real projects before settling back into busywork and desultory surfing. Let my mind skirt the edges of some tangled skeins of dependency and conflicting necessity while I have the luxury of letting them alone.

Every time I look up, the network is angry: They let that guy in Florida off the hook. History repeats itself at such a clip that the tragedy and farce parts of the cycle blur into a single image.

Back at my place in the evening, I scribble cramped and uselessly looping thoughts on paper for hours. Finally set the notebook down and bring the laptop out to sit at the door and write this as lightning works its way around the horizon and thunder mutters along just at the level where you’re not even sure if it’s thunder or passing air traffic. I remember now, not really knowing when I forgot it, that the atmosphere here is balanced right on an edge case, just after the plains and not quite yet the mountains.

A family unit of raccoons drifts past the door, explaining at once most of the skittering across rooftops I’ve heard since moving in. Flashlighting them across the neighbor’s backyard to confirm my suspicions, I realize I’ve interrupted traffic: Scratching from the nearby weeds, a querulous noise something like a foreshortened meow, and a pair of half-sized vermin are looking at me from under the patio table. I step back inside. They proceed.