goes down into partially finished basement, plugs into power, plugs into amplification, uses sticks to beat rhythmically on drums.
grows facial hair long; facial hair does not come in uniformly. devotes to monasticism, mysticism, ritual of contemplation, organization of human through spiritual avenues, channels, tributaries.
not really being paid for this, well, being paid but not really. if the hours put in were added up and divided by the amount being paid, well, not really being paid. but, busy!
saying to me, “do less is the mantra” immediately after saying “i’m swamped—so busy!”. go to a foreign land and ingest a plant. hallucinate. busily, do less.
dog stares at me from its bed. if it stops looking at me, perhaps i will escape. groan, sigh, head to floor. i remain, doing nothing.
holiday lights have been removed from the lighthouse across the channel from the hilltop. ice coats all surfaces and cheer is cheered and moved on. the expanse of water is steel gray, it is blue gray, it is mottled and gray. we are all of us uncomfortable, all of us unsettled, all of us, floating free with our anxieties. the water looks cold. the lighthouse is no longer lit up. a drum is beaten to keep back the savages. a flag is yanked up a pole. a flight is taken. a prayer is uttered until hoarse, until long after sound has stopped sounding.
we begin again with our drugs, our abstentions. begin again with our fidgeting and our steel blue mottled gray. the dog would like me to be more active; i wish mostly to calm down. i had forgotten, maybe never noticed, the lustrous blue green of the neighbor’s roof. it presents itself without fanfare, in the spaces left by vanishing snow.
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