Heather’s recording a tune, I’m listening. We switched seats a little while ago – I recorded PUSH, and Spine, Selkie. Old, old songs. I’m always afraid that I’ve got nothing new in me. That all my writing goes into this Journal, or into emails, or in to the sheer effort of talking to new people every single night.
I’m sucking on a cherry pit. Gifts from Tom and Diane – she’s had as many as she can stand, I’m amazed at the kindness of the Carolinas. We have a small glass table in the apartment that we’ve gleaned, and a gold dollar, a parting gift from Deanne, graces it’s centre. The summer heat is returning to Durham, making me sluggish – seeking solace and protection (there is an ant on the computer, it’s just crawled over the “summer”) in the midst of these centenarian walls. Heather’s singing of cassette intestines, and I wish we could borrow one of the neighbours’ pets. One of the quiet ones.
Or perhaps an ant-eater. Shit.
