There’s no desk here. Not one that I can use. Not one of my own. That is part of the explanation.

     Then there is the issue of space. In order for this to be about the present, my physical location must be considered. And as I am without a home (I’ve been saying homeless instead of the partial truth of moving back in with my parents)- to find the blend of ambition and clarity is not as it had been in other places.

     All excuses for another stretch of absences. All hangover self-sympathy.

     It was a good night, though. Worked a whole bunch before had. The annual celebration of that one friend’s birthday that everyone comes out for. Famous for chaos and joy and unique occurrences even when in non-unique places. I myself have even made several scenes over the years.

     And although my head does ache and there are a few illegible scribbles in a train ride notebook that I’ve yet to decipher- my aches seem not what they once were. I didn’t incite a riot or embarrass myself. Just enjoyment to a reasonable point of pleasure without provoking pain. Unscathed, mostly.

     But there’s always something to ponder upon, isn’t there Bruce?

     So anyway. I’ll admit to you now, I am a big fan of talking to myself. I do it quite often. Perhaps a disturbing amount, but I’ll let the psychoanalysts debate that. But yeah, I ramble and mutter to myself all the time. Particularly, during the many hour plus drives I do on a more than regular basis. I find that the thoughts from inside get transferred outward without causing any alarm. By the time it dawns on me that the speech is aloud and without an external audience, the when of origination becomes impossible to determine.

     That kind of behavior feeds this kind. And when one is low or deprived, the other is made to compensate.

     So what I’m saying is, I might be losing my marbles. And that is a good thing. I’ve never been at my best when held tightly to the demands of sanity. To attempt to behave in the norm, only serves to make anxious and inauthentic the words and actions produced.

     But let me ramble like a madman, and the flow and prose will be far beyond that of anything seeming sort of synthesized.

     It is nice here. This childhood home of mine. Today, especially. No one home. Birds going on and on in the trees. It’s not heatwave hot. The air is void of stink. It’s just that its not mine. It hasn’t been home for ten years, really. And it can never be again. Just one of those many, many things is life that was but now, as it ain’t, it isn’t any more. No getting it back.

     Its why people love the ending to Casablanca so much. The insatiable ache of the antithesis of what is at least believed to be desired. And I would wager that ache is widely more available in regular ol’ human life than it ever is allowed within our collective fantasies.

It is in mine.

And I love it so. The deep sighs. Not of disappointment. Something closer to reverence. A hum. The om of acknowledgement of the once greatness now gone.

Might be because with that sigh, speaks some whisper of tomorrow. Of all these things of what might be. All beyond what you can imagine. As was that which incited the original sigh. Never saw it coming.

Or something like that. Need to keep these muscles moving. Even in times of transitional unknowns.

Thinking I might do something about that whole desk thing. Just gotta find somewhere to put. I have a place in mind. We’ll see how it works out.