Time is moving me closer to midnight than I planned and I didn't think I'd be at my keyboard so late, but it's mid-August and there are small things making noises somewhere beyond my studio. My door is open and I feel the cool air sliding along the floor and landing at my feet. Outside, crickets, maybe. Or small frogs. There was a small frog who lived in our pond for awhile. He was known by his boisterous voice and then he was, I believe, eaten. Herons visit. So do skunks and two feral cats. Any of whom could wolf down a small frog without a second thought.
This 280 square foot room is where I do my stuff. There's an early-Dylan poster at one end that used to inspire me to think new thoughts, but I don't look at it anymore and now he leans with his face to the wall.
Do crickets still rub their legs together to make sound? If they do then they are wearing their parts out, but for what purpose? Rhythmic. Repetitive. Lovely at first and then not unlike tiny pile drivers in the back of one's skull.
A mid-August night in Sonoma County. Five weeks from Autumnal Equinox. Then Halloween. Thanksgiving. Christmas. 2010. This year has spent two thirds of itself, and now what?
