Last night the gusts seemingly moved the house off the foundation. The walls groaned and then settled into some kind of defeated position, content to be battered and spat upon. At 3:18 a.m. I was making grocery lists, assembling video clips of nonsense, blocking off time to clean bathrooms, cook dinners, mix drinks. I re-read a story which looked like: Rebirth of a Sausage. And thought about this: why doesn’t someone give those bushmen in Namibia a fucking cast iron skillet so they don’t have to make their ostrich egg omelets caked in dirt and embers? A shitty name for a band would be Cerebral Beef. In the 3 a.m. hour husbands die slowly. Obits and radiation in the water and the sports highlights on the overnight recap all look alike: giant men tossing little balls into hoops. Ugly men sliding on ice pummel one another over a little frozen piece of vulcanized rubber. Life drains slower in the dark. Even slower. I read an article about a famous football player who committed suicide in his condo after the dementia he suffered from various concussions during his career wiped out his ability to spell. He laid out his football helmets and various paper degrees with their fancy stamps and flowery calligraphy and shot himself in the chest. In his note he wished to donate his brain to the NFL concussion something or other. Everything moves slower in the 3 a.m. hour.
What was that?
Nothing. Just the wind. Go back to bed. Tomorrow’s a hard one.
Will you grab me a glass of water?
I don’t know.