(found by the dishrack with the drying dishes)
-Oh You All Out There, Out There-
Is this all? Is this what there is? A reconsideration of events, a recollection of things. Are there no more things left to do? We can only recount.
But I do like washing dishes, see, and mowing lawns. I do like the activities of non-reproductive maintenance – in which I play a non-autonomous part, in which I become another with objects.
Yet I cannot help but wonder where the adventure has gone. Yes, I was a young boy, but there was a time when airplanes were a realm of magic, awe, discovery.
Now I file on with the queue and sit in my seat. No smile. No wide-eyes. No special glance for the girl by the window, whose hair is gleaming in the streaming sunlight, no more an angel.
But I do like vacuuming carpets, yes, and painting walls. I do like the subsumation of my self into the mechanism, the ability to no longer need any other to be responsible for the flabby paunch of my ego – which constantly gets pinched by a belt that can no longer be bothered to contain it.
I do like football on Sundays. I do like the hazy afternoons of loud incoherence after two beers. What?
Because I have to. Because the magic is lost. Because I have lost it.
Because it was lost from the start. Lost. All there was.
-Oh woebegone to me-