But for the crows it’s quiet on my walk to the lake. The clouds make it glum with the lawns going brown and the leaves coming down. I jump the gun with fall, my favorite season (the first half). In fact all seasons are like that, first and second halves. The year divided into eighths. The back half of summer and the first half of fall make for the best color and light, the coming of fog. The mosquito landed on my knee but couldn’t get anything from me and just kept sucking air. I really had no idea how badly I’d disintegrated out here in the suburbs. The definition of wealth, broader than it seems. I dug up the yard to find the lids to the septic tank so we could get it pumped. I really don’t want to know how the septic works. It’s like plumbing or the internet, invisible lines we count on like blood in our veins, the things you can’t see but have to rely on. In the dark I heard the cat puke on the rug. On the side of the house under the eaves I relieved myself and watched for that little bird that nests in one of the holes beneath the roof. Is it true that writers are like actors too? Putting on some pose to make you believe we’re real, someone you could care about or relate to. To make you forget yourself or remember a part you lost. Or make you think you could be more than yourself if you just pretended, and had someone else feed you the lines.

Categories: identity, prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, identity, mid-life crisis, pacific northwest, stream-of-consciousness, William Pearse writer