Triste

I must admit at the outset that my drive to write is currently less than fervent. Writing from what is intended to be not a voice, but my voice has its drawbacks. Were I to be writing, say, a semi-fictional, gratuitously embellished, first person auto biographical account of an eighteenth century widower, mother of three, with a grapefruit sized goiter and a penchant for fresh taffy, leaving her children unattended during her three day trips to the nearest bay city, I would have an easier time writing on a night like tonight. But lo, I feel, and hence can speak as nothing more than a hapless wanderer on an often too lonely planet. Aside from reading the closing pages of my novel –once a vastly satisfying series of moments, now in my older age and preference for realist, that is, lacking happy endings literature, a profound resurgence of goalless yearning- what is more potent, palpable is my seemingly all too soon leave taking of my Hispaniola rooted amica. Verily, the leg of my trip through the British and French metropoli, and through the would-be otherwise unvisited (save of course, San Fermin and Ernest Hemingway) city of Pamplona was intended to be the shorter of my travels. Still, I neglected to realize how much my anticipation of reunion with long friends kept my spirits high in the prior. Now, I am truly left to none but my own devices -the fancy of the bird admiring, cubicle loathing day dreamer, no?

Adventurer, space-traveler as I am, as we all are, we crave, even require a track on which to clasp our ever restless wheels of otherwise unbridled desire. Without such, a planetless moon, we tumble through time without the simple joy of pulling out a tide or lighting the way for a weary traveler, needing only enough reflected radiance to distinguish water from brine.

But enough pretentious metaphors and disharmonic yarn spinning, my body, not my mind makes decisions at this hour, and rest, with a side of repair is the order tonight.