my evolution

Good morning, darling. I'm not making pies at the moment, but rather going about the house attending to chores. I coordinate what I'm doing with what's on radio. (Like that Buster Keaton short of the ramshackle house, paired with the song you can shake it you can break it you can hang it on the wall - I'm all over the place.) Vacuuming goes on during commercial breaks. I looked up Columbus, Nebraska, the once (and future?) proposed center of a rail-oriented highway of cities, while Natalie Merchant sang Motherland. I'm wearing my apron. I miss you. The cupboard is bare. I really should do food shopping today. Let me start a list: dishwashing powder, bath soap.

Last week I packed the possessions I wish to bring along with me. I was surprised at how few they ended up being. They're all in the living room. Most fit right on the coffee table, and then there are a couple of boxes of books and papers. That's it. I didn't pack many books since where I'm going there's a wish for access to every book ever written. Add to that my wish for a copy of every album of every performer that KZE has been playing in the weeks since I glommed on. A musical education, on top of all the wonder & pleasure.

But in trying to decide which books to take or leave behind, I glanced at the arrangement of book titles on my shelf. My books are in a hodgepodge, not organized at all (though my gardening books are all in one place). As I looked over the titles, they spoke to me - as resonating with aspects of my own life's journey. Strange. I don't buy many books (not as many as I'd like) - was my subconscious - or a mind not my own - buying them for the titles, pieces of the puzzle?

Throwing my arms around you with passionate abandon, darling. Stealing a kiss.