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Sunday, June 6, 2010

Currently Untitled (IDK>>>WTCT,OK) 6/06

Often, especially when we lived in Kittery, a flurry of activity would suffuse my household. People, including my siblings, parents and me, would hustle and bustle about, especially in the morning, in our tiny apartment-one that may have been cramped but that was otherwise great. Great, at least as far as my rose-colored memories of it go. I remember the living room and assorted other zones within the parameters and perimeters of our apartment and how it was tiny and odd-shaped. How the floors were strange and how some sloped upward, whereas others sloped downward. How one floor was plain wood that had an orange tint, and another was mantled with a threadbare carpet of orange, brown and yellow; some spots of which had been worn and rubbed away to giant patches of solid black. A black that no one knew the origin of-not even me. I remember the different sofas that marched across our living room over the years, and the white-silled windows and the playroom, which was like an enclosed indigent veranda. I remember the yard, and it's immensity. I remember the different trees (including "Down-By-The-Tree") that fringed and infused our property thereon. I remember our odd, half-rural, half-urban environ. I remember the layout of everything within it and the two or three streets that allowed for the triangular, insular wooded plateau on which a portion of our property sat. I remember it and more, but just recently unbidden memories have begun to flood back to me, overwhelming me with their intensity. These are all memories that I could not formerly remember...but daily I receive new ones. Or, old ones, I should say. There is more to the story, but until someone expresses an actual interest in hearing it, what point is there in me wasting my time telling it? Telling it to a dead, deaf and lifeless audience who will not respond? No thank you. I will not do that. Not, unless if it for me-which is all that any of these notes/entries/blogs, etc have been so far. Hopefully, the tide will turn soon, and readers will irrupt, perhaps unbidden, materializing and reading and commenting. Until then, I am done. I can only take so much nothingness before I pack up and move on. Thank you, again, for ignoring me and the gilt words that come pouring forth from my pen that like so much floodwater. A floodwater that those who ignore me should be drowned under. Thank you. Have, all of you, please, what dimly passes for a nice day.

1 comment:

  1. Why does anyone care? Clearly, an autobiographical episode such as this should not be told if no one will listen? Do you agree, oh great and mighty Dcool27? (PS. Sorry to be so self-congratulatory and self-aggrandizing to you.)

    ReplyDelete