Back in the USA, familiarity feels strange.  After “minding the gap” and living in a human ash cloud for four months, and hammering certain habits of living into the copper score of my brain, the old cues are confusing.  There is the old scent of the Iowa outdoors.  The bed, blinds and desk stand as tied to the past.  The colour of the lamps at night is the same as in memories.  Mom and dad still speak the same way, set the table as before, use the same cleaning products on the kitchen sink.  Like they say: “nothing changes; nothing stays the same.”

Liable to error as self assessment is, the one thing I (believe that I) believe in is the virtue of combining elements of different nature (see natural chemistry, human chemistry, etc.).  Like a bell on Christmas night, they’re unmistakable — these motifs of a song I know.  All of the other notes are clinging to the staves, leaving me as the culprit of a new cacophonic order, or the restorer of peace in a capitulation to the original manuscript, hackneyed as it is in this modern summer.

It’s times like this that rustling greens and warm sidewalks cast a binding magic on old animal spirits.


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