Saturday, August 15, 2015

"Buckets of moonbeams in my hand"

I slept like a baby when she was here. Now, I'm up in the middle of the night, whining to myself like one. Ah well, what can one do but stare into the darkness until forms appear, then hope that they are in the shapes of the shadows of sleep. I considered opening a bottle of wine, a leftover Malbec, though I do not feel like it. I am hoping to return to some form of exercise in the morning. It is what I have been telling myself. My hiatus from regular exercise has now stretched through the summer. 

Tomorrow is supposed to be a very hot day. I plan on taking the boy to a local baseball game. We will see if it makes any sense to do so. The heat here can be brutal, like Burning Man but without the dust storms. Ugh, I need to condition myself for that also. Perhaps that is why I can't sleep, my recognition of the conditions that I am about to enter. Two weeks and counting.

A close friend has decided in the last few days to go. We are now searching for a ticket for him. He has bought his flights, booked his bike, will be on the lookout for clothes. He and I could just swing by a plus-sized for ladies shop and be done with it all, though I am beginning to bore of dressing in drag. It is what happens to an aging man who has tossed away his last vestiges of femininity, eventually even women's panties lose their magical appeal. If I could just learn to deprive myself of them for a while then I know the magic of putting them on again would return anew, but I am a helpless devotee to certain forms of fiendishness, as many of you have already detected.

I need to confirm some clothes also. My collection of scarves and beads is waning and in desperate need of additions, something other than just accessories. Something dignified, an article that honestly expresses the spirit of my age. Maybe a nice red smoking jacket. 

My brother turned 49 yesterday. Next year I'll have to stop speaking to him. It is written. 

All the decades, disappeared like smoke.