I went out back to be with language, and was, but also disassembled most of the cobwebbed electrical box that once powered the broken sprinklers, to get it out of the way before the painters come. I have to figure out where you switch off the current.
Fanny Howe hit the mark. We’d had a nodding acquaintance but this time something turned in the lock. The mystic’s concision. It made me think of childhood in the desert; M. texted photos from our old 7-11, which gives out free Slurpees once a year, and I remembered the planet at night that was its glowing sign, the only thing on that stretch of road. Saguaro arms shadowing the lot. It’s the intersection with Swan Road where Skyline terminates (and J., who is rereading the Aeneid, sent me a note that three-way intersections are ruled by Diana of the Crossroads).
The things I do at night follow me around the next day, warm and concealed. I have to be cautious of my phone, which will lead me back to them.
I feel sane, though, turning pages in the sun; and sanity has been awfully coy these past few months. It’s possible this is enough. One can go back inside and manage the second half of the basketball game.
