March 18th, 2010 by Hoopleton

I haven’t written for the days have steamed along and my mind is held up in some tin roof motel four counties north. I receive ransom letters in lieu of dreams, scribbled out in faded avocado ink. And I shrug, and I think, well, I suppose this is just the way it’s gonna be. But to what end? I’m not sure, I reply as I run my fingers through my graying hair. I honestly don’t think it matters all that much.

Consider the first half of March my vacation from myself. Don’t you dare ask what the second half will bring. The point is that I’ve been cleansing and I don’t plan to stop just yet. Personal matters need to be sorted. Court documents need to be filed. There’s only so much aged Gouda in the world. Oh, and of course there is the ever present agony of self.

I was standing on a bridge over the Chicago River smoking one of the last few dozen cigarettes I’ll smoke this winter and for a moment I could see the waters swell over the banks. I imagined the river rising twenty stories in twenty seconds. Streets devastated by tides of sewage. Cars washed away within the inland sea. It wouldn’t be long from that point until the overpasses were submerged and skyscrapers began to topple over like dead trees. At the surface only blue flesh and forests of loose-leaf.

These are the thoughts that occupy my mind in the brief intervals of silence between the near constant booming volleys of undeserved, but certainly long overdue joy. Sickening isn’t it? And you wonder why it is I need a month away.

Hoopleton will be back in stride very soon. Stay tuned.