I wake slowly, new time zones and a strange haze over Nebraska. The forecast says clear skies and sunshine, is this what constitutes a clear sky here? Perhaps the world is coming to an end.
The newsfeed is all obituary in the form of partisan warfare. The view from the 8th floor window remains blissfully ignorant. A few cars loll by. He returns with coffee to say there is a farmer's market down the street and we have to go. You wonder if a farmer's market is different here, where the farms creep into the city limits. I miss New York.
A story continues to bulge and undulate behind my temples. It adds the rickety old houses to its memory bank, adds the alienated feeling of not being quite sure this is the same country where you live. I look over my notes, remember the point of the story.
Remember the point is I am all story, no matter when I try not to, no matter when I forget.
A wedding begins in the banquet hall downstairs. 150 people as though the world wasn't ending, only beginning. Hashtag Wray of light from the newly minted Mr and Mrs. Well, he gets to remain. She's changing her entire self.
Add it to the memory bank. Think art is a form of resistance. Gather your weapons. Prepare to draw.
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