Undefined

I seem to have a lot of time on my hands this Memorial Day weekend. I suppose I like it that way. When I'm with people I can't wait to be alone. And alone is fine aside from a few boundaries that seem lately less defined. Skittering shadows, the blurring of what I have written and what is. But what's reality anyhow, right?

I have been reading slowly to prolong my sojourn into Brooklyn on recent sleepy nights (my comfort always invaded with thoughts of rising at 4am, driving off to work in the dark morning), but Motherless Brooklyn came to an end yesterday. What is not to like about this book?

Assertions and generalizations are, of course, a version of Tourette's. A way of touching the world, handling it, covering it with confirming language.

Funny. I need to cover this book with my own version of ownership. Claim the sense of fairness and compassion it offers, the sense of knowing ones purpose, the sense of place and time, acceptance of ones identity. In the end I need to own each character's transition into allowing the other to define himself.

So it was that each of the Minna organizations, Frank's and Gerard's, were gently and elegantly steered past the shoals of corruption by their quietest disciples.

You know, I really admire the virtues of selflessness, quiet wisdom, insight into anothers character, humility... And of course strength. And even brute force. Hmmm... and sexiness. But this can only happen when someone doesn't know they're sexy. Unexpected sexiness. (And of course sexiness isn't found in the usual places. It is always found where it is least likely, like a big ticcing guy with Tourette's. And it always depends on the man's total obliviousness to knowing he's sexy. Men who think they are sexy or try to be sexy or work too hard at being sexy just aren't sexy.) And this book is delightfully sexy. I wasn't expecting that. Sexy sexy sexy. There. I got that out of my system.

Before Julia could calculate the meaning of my action I darted as if for an elusive shoulder and grabbed the muzzle of her gun, then twisted it out of her hand and hurled with all the strength in my legs, like a center fielder deep at the wall straining for a distant cutoff man. Julia's gun went farther than Tony's, out to where the waves that would reach the rocks were just taking shape, the sea curling, discovering its form.

So I'm done with that now. And I'm in that weird undefined "between books" place, wondering what's next. Yesterday I thought I might be dying, but I suppose not. I guess I will go on living for a long time. I picked up a couple of books for 50 cents at the local library. It's sort of my way of letting destiny deal me books. I keep my eye open for Matthews and Carver on the sale shelves, but it isn't time for them, apparently. I've got to be guided by some strong force to buy a book at full price. Haruki Murakami is the only one to hold that distinction in recent history. My latest fifty-centers are Berlin Noir, by Philip Kerr and a book about Alaska called Coming into the Country, by John McPhee. I have always been attracted to Alaska in the abstract. Who knows if I may actually read these, but I think I wanted the Alaska book because lately I find myself longing for cold weather. These recent 90 degree days leave me wishing for crispness. Winter is the time for interiors, for figuring things out. I need to go inside. All of the green life bursting forth around me, all the unseeing energy of vacationing people, RV's, lakes, picnics, boats, rest stops and running to catch memories is exhausting.

I think today I will sit quietly in the center of an empty concrete parking lot, cooler next to me on the ground, and drink a six pack of beer. Budweiser would work. Midwestern Zen with Alcohol. My own little still life.