I call it “the Horse House.” Garden House was already taken by a place perched on the T tracks over by the lake. The Horse House is a corner lot with stunning trees, foundation beds, and median strip plantings. They even have a big garbage barrel on the curb for dog poop bags. Much appreciated.
I round this corner at about the halfway point of my dog walk. Usually when I pass, some kind of idea or some string of words have come to me for a blog post. Today, no. I can think of three reasons.
One: a clutter of dreams. A charging cord, hot and blackened. An 83 year old friend inexplicably standing in my bedroom where the bed keeps unmaking itself. A butt dial allowing me to hear disdainful confusion about texts I’d sent (“Remind me not to try and be helpful!”). The corralling of prisoners by a body of water. Have they been afforded due process?
Also I was listening to a New Yorker story about the pandemic, travel, risk, baseball and luck.
Third, at the corner I was confronted by the most delicious smell of sautéing garlic. Wow. 9:25 a.m.
Are you really writing a post about writing (or not writing) a post? Yeah. Sorry.
Today I’m going to couch yellow or red threads around a quilted house that disappears into its background. What are you six? Well, maybe.
In closing let me say that anyone hoping that the hyped 12:30 announcement by DOJ was about domestic terrorists or corrupt politicians will be very disappointed. Indictments for international cyber criminals are not nothing. But? I know accountability is coming. It’s just a matter of time, right?