Saturday, April 23, 2022

looking for places where I am supposed to be.

I woke up from the yearly depression ten days ago. There's been many centimeters of rain, and I never like the moist way we do it here, but these rains are the ones who signal the leaves what to do. 

The birds have been noising again, and I can hear the frogs again. The window is almost always full-open when this begins. The lights are an impossible god.

I joined the local makerspace in Wilmington. There is a fully functioning and completely equipped woodshop. I would type that sentence twice, but it barely matters. I found a home, I think. I am supposed to be there, I think.

I am looking for places where I am supposed to be.


Anonymous said...

Hey Chris,
Lets talk booze and Bicycles, and how I am old now. I know it. I am reminded of that every time I glance over in the corner at Little Miss Dangerous, my 1981 Schwinn Super LeTour. She speaks to me, somehow; I know that any ride I take might be the last. But Goddamn! What a blast these past ten years have been, what a thrill to have been the Trailer Park Cyclist, King of Beers, Friend of Man (and Women), Rex Fatali, et al.

And Finally

There aren't any monsters under the bed, kids. That's just an old myth. Old Presidents are just a lot of noise. He won't be back. The next threat will be Florida Man. Not as scary as the Big Cheeto, in fact he can at least speak in comprehensible sentences. Business as usual.

I will catch my breath sooner or later. My Doc keeps warning me if I don't quit drinking I will die. Well of course I will! But I'm going to die anyway, so why not know what caused it?
Love ya Pixie.

Trailer Park cyclist, April 2022.

Anonymous said...

what is this? i didn't leave this. its a fragment from a post i left a couple months ago. i sense the presence of nick, i do...