Floppy Baby

I could do something useful.

I could scrape the mud off my boots, well, two pairs of boots sitting by the back door.

I could see if the laundry in the washer is ready for the dryer.

I could start a pot of soup, brush the cat, vacuum under the bed, pay bills. It’s always good to pay bills.

I could finish a ridiculous story I started about a woman putting a hex on the grotesque house next door, but I need more hex knowledge than I’ve managed to accumulate in seventy-five years.

It is pouring rain. The rain is so loud that it sounds like trucks coming down the street. I have a meeting tonight across town. I have a very good umbrella, something that wasn’t always true, and I don’t have to wait next to a lamp post for a bus. That’s lucky. I’d like to decline but I can’t because showing up is kind of a core belief, even when I’m floating around directionless. Now there’s thunder and lightning. Oh great.

Being at loose ends is not a sustainable approach to life. So, I’ll give this current episode a day or two to shake out and then I will firmly reattach to a purpose. It will be easier if I try to do that at nine o’clock in the morning rather than at four in the afternoon when it is already dark in Wisconsin and the day seems done before being half over.

So much aimlessness. So little time.


Photo by Charlie Solorzano on Unsplash

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