Whole Cloth

 

I'm at a loss for words. Just a moment ago I was so clever, so to the point. I remember that I'd declared the not too hidden fact that I'm depressed. Not so that I'd want to end it all, except slowly. Three times under. There was something else, I can't remember what, then the words of my friend Mary, "You're the only one who can change it."

I quipped the memory of her remark, and that's what I can't recall; I was so clever, so to the point.

Godess I'm depressed. Self medicated (i.e. drunk, on the weekends anyway). I got onto facebook drunk. Oops.

I mean, the level of discourse is not. One of my co-workers came into a little gathering in the office and declared that the protesters on Wall Street are being paid by Obama. He was serious. He'd heard it on the internet. Is there some misconstured kernel of truth there or was this fashioned of whole cloth? Does such a distinction even matter?

The Autumn progesses beautifully. I saw my first bare tree this evening, its bronchial structure displayed like spilt ink across the sunset. I've got my poplar stacked and covered and my neighbor said he told some tree hound to get lost so that I could cut up his fallen hickory. I guess I'll be warm even if the electricity fails this winter.

Yeah, I know the truth. It may be beautiful, but it ain't pretty.