7:21pm. Washing dishes. I'm always moving, but I'm all caught up. That covers this blog's pretense. That fills the quota for the original concept.
The daily spillage of unnecessary personal information remains to be poured out. I don't think I have the words for it, and I definitely don't own a mop to clean it up. Aside from outward appearances, I'm not calm. I haven't been drinking for the sum of two nights, so I can't even fool myself into a phony calm. I'm not saying that drinking is effecting my calm, and I'd rather leave mention of it out of this completely. But I'm not writing fiction, and I'm on a weird mission to say too much, so it's in. I drink every day, and it's notable when there's a pause. Maybe that cop shook me up. Maybe the combination of the cop encounter and a lack of false booze-calm are turning me into a monster. But those maybes can be followed by any scenario. I think it's more like this: I think I'm walking on coals and I got distracted and stood in one place for too long.
My feelings about Ashland are the same. It's magic and hoopla and there's a creek. My heart is the thing which is exploding. Ashland remains much the same. Now I'd like to move on and witness the rest of the perpetually exploding universe with as little time for logistical preparation as I can muster. Now I'd like to witness a platter of triangle-cut sandwiches with many ingredients including vegetables and deli mustard.