Tuesday, August 9
We keep on putting ice cubes in the box wine. It seems like a bad habit to get into, but I guess I can’t credibly argue that it’s a worse habit than the box wine is on its own.
She’s alphabetizing the records. I’m writing code, but it’s not useful code. (It’s more like arranging a bunch of rusty hand tools with dulled edges than it’s like tightening the fittings on a robot.)
The fans are all on. Earlier it seemed like it might storm, but outside it’s dry and still, and the internet radar is correspondingly empty. Rabbits are probably scratching at the lawn. There’s fresh raccoon shit near the apple tree, which is so heavy with fruit it threatens to snap major branches. The windfalls have already started drawing critters.
There’s a circularity to things. It’s not that all arrangements of fact repeat themselves, just that the patterns come around. Here I am at a kitchen table in the Colorado summer, typing and drinking. Switching to sun tea, I pry ice cubes out of the tray and think about this season in the states just east of here and in years just past.
A lot doesn’t look quite the same when you see it again. Not that you’re of necessity any wiser or better at grasping it. If anything, at this point on the curve of experience, I feel more fuzzed out and shallow than I probably did a decade ago.