It's nice to have the widget over there to the right with the music seemingly pre-set to be a muse this evening. It feels like a week since I read anything, visited anywhere, or got a damn thing done in the house. And it shows...
Just as I am rallying today Trooper wanes and falls victim to the same crap. Such is love, my darling... But he does not get to lay in bed. Paperwork is due tomorrow and he has evidence to process and the papers to get across the county before midnight. At least tomorrow he can sleep all the day long. It isn't much but it's all I've got to comfort him.
I grow melancholy with the season, not really wishing to do more than wander through the rooms. I tire of my work, more behind than ever, and threatened there with foolish warnings if I do not rehash my every task in their bloody horrid database. If we delivered that piece of shit to a client they'd sue us. So...tomorrow I have to set my mouth and just do it, trying to decide if I can wait until the new year to cash out the 401k - if it will lose much in the interim. I figure if I wait to toss it onto the next tax year I might get out of it entirely. Assuming the inevitable failure, of course. Would utter collapse be worthwhile if it ended the IRAsses?
I watched people this weekend at the fair, thinking about how they would all end badly...so many trust that their kind, public thievery and redistribution will buy them a Get Out Of Gang Rape Free card. They will feed on you, mad fools. And how can you not see it? My eyes shifted away, blinking, trying to put on a smile over the hot cider. I felt a kind of motherly sympathy for them, the unwitting. Trooper and I shared a bit of derision as a father kindly explained that the horses were going to dig up the field. Even the mules on the team snorted at him. Is that how far we have come from it?
We watch from our soft perch discussions on tactics, mechanics of this rifle against another, review historic battles and modern warfare. Every moment is spent trying to learn something that might help. And even with all that - all that information - I know that I am still a helpless infant against what will come. I shall do better than most but I think it will not end well. And I worry about it, sometimes.
I press him about the gifts, trying to find the right ones for those young and promising friends. We've no children to spoil and so take on those, getting what might help in those coming days...buying larger for the growing to come...
I want to tell the families - do not spend anything on us but instead on yourself. A weapon, ammunition, food or gas. Whatever suits you best. But it seems rude...not all of them know...or are ready to consider it, whole. At what point is it socially acceptable to rip off a blindfold and show them what you see as truth?
We think of his family, of his old homestead still far enough in the hills that the young men would try to hold it. Wonder if it'd be better to arrange a slot there...but Atlanta is too close. Much too close. No, it's better here. Safer, here. And so we begin to look, again, for the land that is just right. The water, the terrain, the population, and the accessibility. And that is where the money will have to go. An investment in survival.
Along with all this the old carols ring...the season should bring more than just this chill. I tell myself it is just the flesh aging, a protest against this quarter. But something seats deep in my bones and bids me watch. Watch and wait. And in the corner of my eye she wears the blackest feathers, sharp fingers tapping impatiently.