Salem, in June (it matters where you are)

Sometimes, my real coughing is like fake Dave Letterman coughing.

I cough to dislodge Wendy's Frosty dairy dessert from my throat, as I try driving while spooning the stuff out of the cup, which is between my legs, or else in the cup holder. It's all precarious. Precarious with an exclamation point.

I am in Salem, Illinois. It's the latest of my short, temporary homes. It's a town of about eight thousand, but mostly I see the people on their way through. We are right on the interstate, and I am in my third floor hotel room, window overlooking the gas station across the street, and there are always road-weary travelers pumping gas and the passengers are always getting out and stretching their arms and legs and yawning, and usually they are very nice looking girls, and that's when I realize that I am checking out girls. What can this possibly mean, Dr.?

I try not to feel sexy at all, most of the time.

Sometimes it works, and I am androgynous.

-

Last weekend, I did not have to work, but I had to stick around. I ended up wondering what the hell I should do with myself for such a long time, and finally decided to go to Chicago. It was a pretty good decision. I walked around too much, way too much, and just before the meaty insides of my thighs started to bleed, Kevin called and invited me to a cafe downtown, so I hailed a cab, and I got to stop walking. Such a relief.

I must have had ten cups of coffee through that evening, and it was great to see Kevin again, and I tried to not be a pain as I tagged along to the airport to pick-up his friend, and things like that. There was a lot of doings squeezed into sixteen or eighteen hours, really.

So there were conversations, and that was great, because I'm not used to conversations. It made me realize how often I'm on my own, or by myself, or whatever else. I mean, well, I didn't have to Realize it. It's a given. Just so much of a given that the significance of the consequences gets lost on me. And I realize how great it can be to talk. And not only talk, but to talk about anything that strikes my fancy.

"Strikes my fancy" isn't a phrase that I would use in my everyday language, by the way. But I just can't think of anything else.

-

I'm thinking that this is my last hurrah, for work. I put in a notice of sorts a few weeks ago, and told them that I wasn't going to do this anymore. They asked me about "one more quick job", and I agreed, and it's not so bad. But anyway, it is time. In truth, I really do enjoy the job sometimes, depending on the people and the stress. It's an okay job, and it's usually stimulating and it's never boring. But I've decided that I just can't afford to sacrifice the rest of my life for it.

You put things on hold for many weeks, and then you're home for a few days, and you're exhausted, and you get your laundry done, and then you go away and put your life on hold for many more weeks. And you don't grow as a person, living like that. Not that I'm sure that I would, if I had the time, and I'm actually pretty sure that I would squander and waste any time I had to myself, but I guess I feel like I have to try to change things around, and put a little more wax in the lava lamp, or whatever it is I mean.

It's time I had a change in my life, for better or worse.

Because at no point in my life have I been envisioning myself looking back on what I've done and saying "what a divine gas turbine engineer..." and not having anything else to say. I've always wanted to be remembered, by somebody (firstly), and fondly (second). And I've wanted epiphanies that will let me find meaning in what I do with myself, because if you make yourself think about it long enough, there is nothing worse than existing without a good reason. Right now, I am doubting my reasons.

I sincerely hope I find embers, but I'm known to find the bads of it, a lot of the time. I don't know what else to say about all that.

-

I'm sort of disappointed in my ability to think, my declining thinktank abilities, over the last maybe several years. The lack of colour and the lack of a lack of definition to them, a lack of gray areas, more and more turns into easily discernable blacks and whites. It is this or it is this, and nothing else. Taking everything for granted. No more psychedelic daydreaming. No more extraneous spurs of remembered events.

I might talk more about that, a few decades from now.

Now, even ever now, I am just a slow dirigible in the dark, colding into soft nighttime fields of whey, where I may, where I might sleep without cares. Soft and unlonely, full of resting vigor, countenance just waiting for morning, loved and fondly thought of over the far reaches of the planet, and so many more who spark the thought that it would be lovely to know me.

I am going to sleep, because that is where I go almost every night.

Good night.

-Tim.