morning head: Cold shoulder.
Greetings from out here in canal country, where the humidity is up, and the atmosphere is frosty. Somethings, it turns out, ain’t nearly as far way as you thunk they’d be. Bumblefuck being the prime example. Closely followed by broken dreams and marital discord.
Out here, just north of Lock No. 16, and south of Bridge 5, with it’s little white-picket sign for Bill’s Gun Shop, ain’t much a happening. Apart from the roar of motorcycles, as those with some semblance of remaining freedom make use of the local lack of helmet requirements and shatter any illusion of pleasant isolation.
Blessedly out of necessary (and, in its way, much appreciated) in-law-share-housing, and into the backwoods, there’s plenty of time and space for parenting to take its heavy toll.
Things have been silent on the communicatory front, not because there’s been nothing to say, but quite the opposite. The struggles of vanishing productivity, ineffectual medication, and a wildly fluctuating state of spousal respect, make for a crowded head, and little capacity for mouthing off.
There’s a hollow about here somewhere, beckoning. If it wasn’t for the ever increasing enjoyment of watching the wee man laugh at his own farts, I might just be tempted to go and crawl into it.
And of course, there’s Trump. What the fuck can anyone say in the face of that?