While tempted to feeling remiss, whether through a discipline put aside for other pursuits or to a degree that one has grown accustomed, at first blush, knowing the coupon book from Costco is not reason for excitement, nor from which a tale may be readily spun, except, perhaps , as a culmination of errands and the sights while
A two- count of Nutria road-killed.
The young man with Asperger’s who works for the local grocer delivering provisions on his scooter in the rain. A pleasant and cordial lad, he wants to be a veterinarian, and who could blame him, his own mother giving him the heave ho.
The woman who laughs a bit too much as she tells a clerk about the inmate who spit on her when he thought he was being shorted a goodie bag for Christmas.
Or the woman to follow wearing a pink bandana on her hairless head. “Two packs of Marlboro Menthol Lights, please.”
And yes, Forrest, obesity is an issue in this small town. Which brings me back around to Costco. The extra-wide aisles are not only for the flatbed carts.
Which brings me to year's-end.
There was a period in the progression of jazz music , say around 1958 to 1962, that Miles, John, Eric and Ornette, among others , began to move beyond the expected tonalities, doing so while the foot could still be found a-tappin’, all in preparation, intentional or at least desired, for the moment when the beat would too be buried to all but those with an ability to keep beat with their hearts. Nor do changes in tempo mean we stop listening.
Hearing is a forward motion. Choice, not necessarily. Who doesn’t struggle, grow weary, and sometimes incrementally overcome? For instance, the first person singular.
Hence, it is more from reticence, or perhaps that mundane Costco booklet (I did not open it.), or numbers that don’t lie: Books read, less poker, resultant missives, stolen kisses and poems written that keep me away.
In some respects, and I say this with heartfelt gratitude to those with appreciative persistence, there is no going back.