A variety of care lands us in the soup. Care, sunshine, vintage cars, a pair of slim calves.
A life is stitched together, or built with blocks. And when a thread emerges, are we unravelling or stitching anew? Who is in control here: the fabric, God, or the person corresponding to a name on a social security card.
There is a natural argument, I contend. To work, refresh, and work again, that has been missing from my life. Thread or no thread, I have launched and am now countless days at sea in search of that argument. I cite and apologize for disrupture. I am alive to the issues.
Live or dying, I hope I can respond to the tap on my shoulder with a meaningful statement of my condition. I may not speak to you about what you are feeling. That does not mean I do not care.
How much of this is condition, and how much choice? I rebound from such mists as if electric-shocked. I must have coffee and make plans. Sunshine and cars, a movie, a new place to stay. Dreams, dreams, a body of work and dreams. How should one be disappointed in what we all already know?