October 21, 2018 (Sunday)

Muted mornings of fog, leaving for work in the 6 o’clock hour and not getting home until 5, wondering if it’s going to pay off, this new job. Dawn saw the bob cat again by the neighbor’s, described it as two to three times the size of Roxy, more a dark brown color. The leaves are near the end, the big maples going from gold to brown. I burned the last of the wood from the fire last weekend, grilled a kalbi beef fillet, waited for the moon—then later, watched as it turned everything milky and luminescent with the fog. Creatures out stirring in it—me, taking a piss by the side of the house, looking in like a burglar. In the morning, I walked to the lake and there was no one there, just a man on the shore with his hands in his pockets (me) contemplating his next move, likely under or over shooting it, thinking too much or not enough, unable to see himself from the outside in, too fixated on his own reflection. I saw a film today oh boy, about a lucky man who made the grade.

Categories: prose, writing

Tags: 90s nostalgia, a day in the life, autumn poetry, journal writing, mid-life crisis, pacific northwest, self-awareness, self-consciousness, short form, stream-of-consciousness, William Pearse writer