Sunday Night

Sunday night, again. Every time I seem to look up it is Sunday night. Whoosh; the week's gone, the week's starting again. The circle continually closes. What happened to the sunny afternoon in the country? Blue skies, wood ducks on the lake, just me and Mark. I rushed back from there with some urgent sense of writing something, doing something, achieving something. It's amounted to naught.

The garden show is on up the road from my place. I thought, poor, bored souls, going to the next thing on the summer calendar. As I go home to an empty house.

I looked at my latest photos. Not bad, even if it is just me saying it. I can use some of them.

(I sneaked a look at Manny, decided never to post him. I wonder what he'd think?)

The fire is burning. The house is dark. The TV is on mute. I tried watching something. Got bored. The afternoon slipped away. The days is gone.

I should feel some exhilaration, some rush. Something? The muse. The creative juices. Gone and dry.

All I feel is a melancholy burn. A low, strong sense of being somewhere, grounded, settled. Alright. Made it this far. Doing okay. I've got great stuff. I've got cool friends.

Where to now? Yeah, where to now. What now?

I've traveled the world. I've had great partners. I've laughed, loved and lived.

What now? Do it all again? Just the same; but with slightly less looks, slightly less youth. More money thought! Better stuff.

Is that how it goes? Around again, in ever diminishing circles. Around. Around. Right into the ground.

I think I'll go play the guitar piece from Zoot Allures. Black Napkins. It's fierce. Soaring. It shags the base of my soul when I listen to it play. Watch the music shoot the moon, play glockenspiel on the stars, melt the milky way.

When there's nothing left of the weekend, but a few hours, a cocky-cage-mouth and an imagination that's not cutting it. Electric guitar. Lay on the carpet. Go somewhere else. Melt into the floor.