I’m a reasonable man to a certain degree, and an unreasonable man more often than not. I’m not guided by intuition as much as the safety net of 29 years of experience. When faced with a new scenario I can safely look back through the archives and develop a solution that will give me the confidence—if not the wherewithal—to get through it successfully.
Unless I fail, in which case I begin a new lesson.
I was lying in bed thinking about the place I live and creative ways to interpret that when I noticed the layer of condensation on the bow hatch. I’d forgotten to leave the dehumidifier switched on and the sea mist got all up inside. I reached up and dragged my fingers across the warped plastic. I could only smell what I’d describe as dirt. I thought of things I have in the garage I rent. A box of wine and shot glasses. Garbage bags wrapped around liquor bottles. Old blankets. A fleshlight I haven’t needed yet. A windshield box packed with posters and art.
The connection with the condensation was my mind went to texture, tactile, senses, and it reminded me of art. I had those photographs and things from before but I never did hang them on the walls of my old place. Didn’t seem like something necessary.
In studying my reading habits and writing I appreciate the most, I am led toward the self-interested human being. We are all this to some degree, of course, but there is a certain type of person whose documented trials and tribulations begin within. Lots of “I” and “me” and one more person for a “we.” Way I figure, social consciousness is inevitable when the self gets figured out. Some people manage it, some don’t.
I’m taking informal French lessons. It does me good. We repeat syllables to each other and watch them form. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix. And that is cood? No, coude.