It is Sunday night and I sit here listening to old Do Make Say Think records while the bath fills up.  It feels as if I haven’t heard these songs in years, which may very well be true. This band always seemed more appropriate for autumn than for late winter, especially that one autumn five years ago.  At that time the weary and not always hopeful strains seemed like one of the few appropriate things in my life.  Winter strikes me as being on the cusp of an exodus, anyway, and my whole life was on the cusp of something then.  So maybe it’s the perfect thing for this night.

I haven’t done much today besides read while in a supine position and re-arrange my furniture and closet.  When I decided to live where I do, it was in part because I wanted to experience a tiny existence.  What I suppose I didn’t realize is that things are always rushing in to fill up a life, causing it to pull at its seams.  It takes careful and constant pruning to keep things under control.  

The book I am reading is really quite incredibly sad.  I cannot seem to put it down, though I question my own absorption.  At this moment I’m not sure what I’m getting from it, exactly.  And I’m not sure I will discover it anytime soon, but I have a strong suspicion that eventually I will find these words germane to um, something.