I drove my new car home today. It’s got real voom on the highway, and far greater power than the other car. I foresee good performance and service, which comforts me in these trying times. That previous car is still in my possession and while the cash from selling it would be a much needed boon, the process is daunting. I have no desire to haggle with buyers. None of them will understand how to properly care for it, or what the car means. I will simply fix the rear diff seal, replace the cracked windshield, and keep it around until such time as I have the energy to deal with selling it. Or, enjoy the luxury of a weekend car.

What it took to get that new car here is something worth writing about. I took notes while I read short stories on a Greyhound bus to Sacramento. Jotted numbers, underlined metaphoric phrases. I regretted not taking photographs of my trip, but those can be acquired later, after the story has materialized. It makes sense that I lack patience for candid photography and demand only the choice images that aid the narrative.

What “makes sense?” That’s a puzzler. Sometimes, you can’t make sense of who a man is or what he does.

I’m a man who wants a drink. I want to get up and get it myself. This is how I get what I want. Instead, you stand. You will be right back. I sit and watch the crowds at the kayak shack while you walk away. I sit and watch you walk away. I’m going to carry you into the water and you do not know it.

I’ve been cheating. I told my writing professor/motivator that I would focus on writing entirely new stories this semester. New drive, new motivation. I told her, “If anyone and anyplace can do it, it’s here and it’s you.” When after four weeks I had only journal entries and broken sentences on paper, I stopped trying. I pulled the old PC laptop out of the garage and opened the archive I’d saved of the old blog. Waste not, want not. I just needed the stories that were five or more pages. I picked at the body and came away with the most succulent morsels. Those I had not already taken and used, of course. At least three semesters of stories ready to go. I can not bear to admit how much I need her, the class, and the one night a week in which I can simply sit, listen, comment, and read to a group of interested people. I can only hope her intuition tells her so.

My closing thoughts this evening are of you. You feign timidity out of fear of sounding stupid. Your looks matter more than you will admit. Your looks are never good enough. You like the feel of you when you lay beneath a shield of blankets. You would throw your phone into the sea to get away. Your intelligence is a burden on your psyche. You are less oblivious than you were, but remain blissfully unaware in many regards. Aware enough to see through the bullshit, though. Hatred comes easily to you, and this above all things separates us. I am average, neutral, indifferent, apathetic. My passion comes in self-serving spurts. I dwell well within the comfort of the curve. You are and will likely always be on the fringe. In your mind, in your heart, in your unbalanced soul.