a ways back, and for many many months,
i was putting little lovely notes and glyphs on the flat stones
that i'd find on my long walks with crabtree.
that's a thing.
i'd pick 'em up, put 'em in my pocket, bring 'em home,
scribble my magic missives on each and every one;
at one specific location,
in the same spot, at roughly the same time, nearly every single day since winter,
i'd make a little wish, and toss one into this very small pool,
nestled in among a series of waterfalls,
right in the cutest little downhill stream in my neighborhood.
they say that a small stone can make a difference,
(just ask goliath)
and i think in this instance,
putting a whole bunch of (albie) rocks in that low and lovely liquid
changed the course of the coursing current permanently.
not right away.
the continued investment and attention altered the route and routine of
this pouring path through the woodsly goodness.
on the flipside,
the downstream seems to have crashed it's banks,
and destroyed a big piece of roadway infrastructure.
i don't think THAT was my doing, specifically;
but rather the result of the water's insultingly desultory directional drift.
here's the thing, though-
i was writing little love notes to my recently removed ladypiece
on each and every one of those smooth grey circles;
and somewhat allegorically,
every last one of those rocks all sank to the bottom and stayed there,
getting drowned under the fleet flow of the fluid-
which in it's turn just took advantage of the big boost they provided-
one that allowed the water level to rise up and head out
to new and different southerly spaces.
a month later,
the dog and i have stopped dropping rocks,
and ceased casting stones,
and have instead found a sort of temporary armistice with each other.
instead of that pause at the precipice of the reflecting pool,
the walks are now much longer.
the attention is far intenser,
nd the days are so full i've not the time to stay overly introspective,
because the perspective keeps changing faster than the water falls...
things aren't looking up,
but i am,
from the bottom of a streambed, or so it seems.
objectivity is lacking when one sleeps so little.
this whole dang place is appreciably emptier,
the styles are abysmally harder,
and the appreciation of alone time gets smaller and sparser by the day-
this is it.
it's all really happening,
and if these connections i'm making aren't overly far fetched,
there's a better-than-good chance i had more than one hand in doing this to myself,
and over a long enough period that i should've probably seen it coming.
that's just the thing of it, though, neighbors-
too much isn't enough until it's more than you thought,
it's too late, and yet somehow also too little.
i'm noting the passage of time,
and how little dynamism there is between one day and the next.
i'm sure i've written it all before, and probably better,
time and time after time and again-
i guess i just sort of repeat myself when i'm lonely.
i guess i just sort of repeat myself when i'm lonely;
never quiet, never soft.....