Today I arose at a hefty 10 AM after lying in bed for more than an hour, staring out the window, at the screen, scrolling the tubes, watching the spectacle. After waking, I finished the cherry cider leftover from the night before, a nice, 6 oz. lift to what had all the trappings of a perfect Sunday morning, minus the availability of the Eucharist (my own fault, really). Instead of the liturgy, I repaired to the cafe, my seeming church, its congregants my brothers in faith, these days. There are all manner of folk here and only the old men come in, much like myself, for their soups and coffees alone. There is a boy who resembles the fat kid from Stranger Things on an awkward and seeming first date with a young lady. They make small talk and fumble with their cups. There are families, whole scores of people, with babies and children eating tiny portions of grilled cheeses. Old ladies consort in the corner. People stab plastic straws into disposable cups with a prurient urgency. Lana Del Rey is fucking slaying me and I'm close to sobs. Holy God, send a little help to your scribe down here.
Yesterday I was in the cafe solely for reading. I had been writing a truly insane piece of journalism that will never see publication (but that's okay) but put the juice on hold for the day in order to scratch around through a collection of thoughts from various authors. Continuing my education, as it were, refreshing the knowledge I'd forgotten. I stopped after each section in each book to "rest my eyes" as my mother would implore me if I video gamed too long. The cafe was a bustling oasis of warmth and I had just finished a story by Laura Van Den Berg (Volcano House) where the protagonist's twin sister fell victim to a mass shooting. I began to dwell on the absurdity of this, the logistics, the tactics, the possibilities of a man (white, mid-twenties) prepping in the nearby bathroom to gun us all to hell (the delicate click of rounds into magazines). I arose to investigate, found no shooter. Pro-gun Trump guy was in the cafe and I considered the lack of public violence in my town. How would one go about such an endeavor? Remember basic Marine training. Begin planning. Arrange recon. Make recon. Complete plan. The thing I can't remember unless I google (Its acronym's placeholder being an I). Supervise. What was I doing if not making said reconnaissance? I studied the layout of the cafe, the patrons, the curiosity of mass shootings happening in mostly open venues like supermarkets and malls. Here, we were/are target dense, few exits, choke points for bodies, literal fish in a barrel. Why hadn't the imagined guy from the bathroom come in blasting? Which corner would he take first? What child could I steamroll to escape? The thought of a hand grenade rattling around in the small nook. A possible incendiary device, maybe more. The pop pop pop of 556 rounds into puffy coats and bodies. The baristas flooding out through the kitchen in back. Maybe a surprise? Maybe Pro-gun Trump guy engages the target with a concealed pistol? Maybe an "allahu akbar" prior to a clean and final light? Rest your eyes, Benjamin.
I go back to work tomorrow. Not excited about that one. I suppose its necessary as I've worn out my welcome at home and everyone needs a break. This "vacation" of mine has been, like all things, a mental odyssey. Another family through the door, vacantly looking around before selecting a table. A child in bib snow pants (mauve?) runs about smiling like everything, the world, life, is okay. The beauty of the young is so grand, in that they are ignorant of all the ways the earth will destroy them. Yesterday (Friday?) I watched a short-eared owl coast above the Matanuska river before plunging, presumably for prey, into the reverse slope of a nearby rise in elevation. Everyone is speaking wordlessly, replaced by the music making a circuit of my ears which in turn is equally as meaningless/ful. Ah, fuck it.
I suspect I should get in this balloon and motor.
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