it opens this way, and maybe also another...

There isn't speaking today. But there is a river, and a flashing low-battery light on my camera. Coffee, cream no sugar, the owner calls it itsumono and serves it in a glass rather than the usual coffee cup. It is bitter, rich, a person can taste his heart beginning to race from the caffeine just as it touches the tongue.

I closed my eyes and walked to the park near my office. Or I could have closed my eyes to walk there. But did not. I did not recognize my own routine until I began to see that this park was the routine of another, a woman who sits with her phone out, sometimes having a cigarette. She sometimes sits for an hour or more, usually only sitting, nothing more. Her hair is unkept, that is to say not unkempt or filthy, just not so flawlessly done as the ladies and girls one normally sees here on the street. And if she works nearby, it is in her own place, or in the back somewhere, because she wears jeans or dark pants and navy sweatshirts. She spies me now as I make my way up the walk to the entrance. When our eyes meet, she pretends not to see me, and continues with her nothing. When I thought that she must come here every day, I realized that I do as well. So does another woman, but she is invisible. I have only once seen her there, when I followed her in, but never again. But I know she is there. It is only my absence that brings her, and hers that brings me. At least that is what she tells me.

I had some chicken and cold corn for lunch. And walked. A bit aimless, but not really exploring either, this particular corner of this little corner of this corner of the world having grown on me to the point I cannot distinguish it as foreign or distant. It is neither dull nor invigorating, but it is beautiful, certainly. And my stomach is turning slightly. Somewhat with the coffee, and also with something of an urge to break down. It isn't sadness per se. Of course it must be sadness, because it feels like sadness, but also I know that it isn't. I begin to imagine that I have been climbing the knotted rope that used to hang in the back yard in California, Pico Rivera, 949-1467, the number at the house, a circle of fine dirt at the center, where the rope hangs from a branch perhaps fifteen or twenty feet in the air. I am tempted to underestimate the height because of the tendency to enlarge objects and distances remembered from a time when our bodies were smaller, and our imaginations nearly so vast as to be endless. I recall it being nearly twenty-five feet. Surely that is too high. And as I am in memory climbing the rope I have just reached the last knot with my feet, there are no more holds, and I am only halfway to the top. The coarse threads begin to burn into my fingers and between the legs as I try in vain to clasp the thing and give my arms some relief, and there is the sudden realization that the branch I am trying to reach is simply part of a tree, and has no feeling either way about whether or not I reach it. It is a struggle without merit. And so, it seems right to simply let go and climb into the swing or onto the clubhouse... both were made with me in mind. This branch is nothing but a difficult partner. And so of course I do let go. It's not so hard a fall. It shakes me a bit, I am rattled, but not seriously injured. And I go and sit in the shade on the step of the clubhouse, my feet dangling a little, and it feels nice. It is a good day, and there is a bit of a breeze, and there are clear skies, but obviously they are blocked from view by the leaves of the trees. If I had made it to the branch, I could have sat and soaked in the sun and looked out over the neighborhood. But nature had other plans. Still, the clubhouse seems wrong. And so I go inside for a burger between two slices of wonder bread and some koolaid. I hunt through a new box of frosted flakes to see if Caleb has already taken the toy. I can't find anything, but I'm not searching with real purpose. Honestly, I am thinking of the top of that tree. And I think that it was only when I decided to let go--decided that it was a pointless exercise and took a moment to consider spending the afternoon otherwise occupied--that I could see it had not been pointless. Only impossible.

And I am walking by the river, and big mulchers are eating the dead grass. I have not been chasing the wind. I can see that now. But there's nothing for it. Whatever my reasons for letting go, there's not another way to approach. And memory is mixing beauty with sadness, and truth seems unwilling to enter into the discussion. On the other hand, love always has a thing or two to say. In any case, it's kind of truth's mildly retarded cousin. You can't totally believe anything it tells you, but it's usually right anyway.