Foggy soggy doggy morning on the mountain whilst delivering packed red blood cells, transferring them from one hospital to another earlier today.
Back in the Sunny Street Cafe with the gray/white-haired crowd, hearing the laughter of children, the vibratory puffs of air we call voices adding to a random spoken poem or prose song by all ages.
It’s just me here, the random set of states of energy, a result of billions of years of energy states reacting to one another.
It’s just me here, wondering what to do next.
It’s just me here, no superpowers, no vast wealth at my disposal, just a friendly smile to create out of this set of states of energy to warmly greet other such sets which can interpret the smile in such a way that it prevents significant damage to my set.
It’s just me here, as it’s always been, figuring out what to do before I die of natural causes or other mishaps out of my control.
I fall back in my thoughts to my late high school years when I overheard two girls talk about me.
One: “So, are you going to try to get alone with Lee on the band trip?”
Two: “Not this time.”
One: “Why not? He’s cute. You know such-and-such wants to be alone with him, too.”
Two: “Well, she can go ahead. He wouldn’t know what to do if you were alone with him naked and he had an instruction manual.”
From then on, it was a challenge within a small group of girls to try to get me to make out with them.
Little did they know that when I was 16 I’d already gone all the way with a girl and separately with a guy, finding the experience thrilling in the discovery stage but ultimately disappointing.
From then on I thrilled only in the chase, walking away when I got bored chasing or the person I chased wanted me to catch her.
Thus it is that I enjoy dancing, a more elegant and fun form of the chase.
I still don’t know what to do when I’m alone with a woman other than converse politely.
If I don’t dance, I write.
It’s just me here, after all, unable to support myself on my own, a taxi dancer on permanent retainer by my handler, a/k/a my lifelong friend socially labeled my wife, who reluctantly loans me out without complaining about my prolonged absence.
It’s just me here, wallowing in the mud of mediocrity, waiting to die, sticking his head up to smell the fresh breeze of those frolicking in nearby open pastures, dreaming I could be a horse instead of a hog.
Time to work on my dream writer’s cottage, where I can hide when I’m not working.