Home, again. Read every blog post, again. Learned something, again. Alright, enough of that (I hate commas anyway)!
I have been thinking that I should not catalog my summer so far as if to prove to myself and you that I have been doing things and having fun. I cannot attest to either.
Summer is an illusion. I can look at my hands and pretend that they are my hands from the fifth grade when I used to sit on the stairs in front of Steele's with my skateboard that I would purposely scrape up because I could not boardslide of 50/50. The thing is, I am pretending, still.
My hands did pull up a 6 foot shrub today! My legs found a pond. My eyes discovered that a pond is defined as a body of water where sun light can penetrate to the bottom causing plants and vegetation to stretch from shore to shore and can inhabit a variety of species.
No poems. Have been reading poems of friends. Friends are great for poems.
"Something cedar in my heart." I wrote that in a poem once. I quoted myself just now but only because it occurred to me what exactly is becoming cedar in my heart.
Picked so many blueberries and discovered the blues at the same time. I need a pulley system to keep your chin up. Don't let me swim in your face anymore.
Perpetual sweat, perpetual home, perpetual escape, per pet the usual.
Whoops.
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