I live alone in a small cottage by a small river in Iowa whose waters eventually empty into the Mississippi. During the week, I sit at a desk and write my speculations about life and love and the the way of the universe. I try to pull the writing into a narrative, but it eludes me.

In the summer I sit on a small deck at the back of the cottage facing the river. I read books I order from Amazon.com under the shade of the trees. The books are mostly novels about lost love and the pain of it. Let’s say they are like Atonement.

On Saturday nights I walk the mile to the small town close by. I drink at the local bar until I know I can barely make the walk home. My feet crunch the gravel on the road as I make my way home and cross the small bridge spanning the river. In the evening stillness with nothing but the whippoorwills and owls for company, I feel the river was given to me exclusively to ease my troubled mind and heart.

On Sunday mornings, I wake with a dull whiskey hangover throb in my head. I make coffee. I read last week’s New York Times Sunday book review section. I touch nobody; nobody touches me. I know this is what oblivion must feel like.

Published in: on March 5, 2008 at 10:40 am  Leave a Comment  

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