But this is beside the point.
The point is that when I remember this summer, it seemed so much busier than the last. But when I look a little closer, I see that it was actually and alternately manic and lethargic, somber and strange. The honeymoon comedown dominated the last week of June and first half of July, lingering like the clouds overhead that blocked out the sun and kept us chained to the couch in a willful and celebratory procrastination. The middle third was defined by the onset of sadness, the realization of what the television and laziness had kept at bay, and these final two weeks – and especially the past seven days – have felt the shift back into forward momentum: working with the half-Canadian, editing my yin's DVD, little blips of missing our condo.
Even now the words feel strange. Other than the recounting of our travels, this venue has hosted little more than themes recycled at best, and regurgitated at worst.
I suppose this, too, will dissipate, but right now it cloaks everything with a certain somber glow, a special malaise that is neither dramatic nor memorable. It feels more than ever as if I'm writing into a void, filling empty time and empty lines with words inadequately beautiful, beautifully inadequate.
The point is that when I remember this summer, it seemed so much busier than the last. But when I look a little closer, I see that it was actually and alternately manic and lethargic, somber and strange. The honeymoon comedown dominated the last week of June and first half of July, lingering like the clouds overhead that blocked out the sun and kept us chained to the couch in a willful and celebratory procrastination. The middle third was defined by the onset of sadness, the realization of what the television and laziness had kept at bay, and these final two weeks – and especially the past seven days – have felt the shift back into forward momentum: working with the half-Canadian, editing my yin's DVD, little blips of missing our condo.
The knives.
My desk.
Our bed.
Even now the words feel strange. Other than the recounting of our travels, this venue has hosted little more than themes recycled at best, and regurgitated at worst.
I suppose this, too, will dissipate, but right now it cloaks everything with a certain somber glow, a special malaise that is neither dramatic nor memorable. It feels more than ever as if I'm writing into a void, filling empty time and empty lines with words inadequately beautiful, beautifully inadequate.
And so
the eulogy
stops.
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