The dog’s hind leg shifts like a coal in the wood stove, stirs, then settles in. It’s Sunday and I vowed to cook, read, build a fire and that’s it. Spent half of it online reading consumer reviews of cars and talking on the phone to my mom, my dad, my friend Loren in that order. The consumer reviews left me sick-feeling with doubt and suspicion. Some are written in all capitals; most have mis-spellings. They’re “dissappointed” or the frame is too “hevey” for a sports car. They can afford a car like that but can’t afford to spell. I don’t even mention to my dad I’m looking at a Mercedes; he recommends a Rav-4. When I talk cars with my advisor-friend Andrew it’s “a work of art” we’re buying into, not a car. It feels rife with bad judgment, clouds in the crystal ball, exploding towers in the Tarot. The “mid-life crisis car,” better than a 22-year-old blonde, Dawn says. (More reliable?)
I’ll fix dinner, ice my back from pulling it out with the CEO luggage from the meeting Friday. Haven’t walked to the lake this week, it’s all damp and gray and the lawns are matted down with embryonic fluid. I bought a large bottle of beer and put it in a ceramic cup from the Zunftmarkt in Bad Wimpfen, that August festival two, three years ago. I tried writing a post mostly on my phone and this one, long hand, to a Brian Eno song called The Quiet Club that’s an hour long with no words. Can you call it a song if there’s no singing, or is that a piece?