drive drove driven

one is sleep

Blogging is like wearing a rectal thermometer, readers monitor one’s state of mind as it comes and goes, at this stage of life mostly goes, and not wanting to be noticed.

 Beyond a certain point, every and each is entitled to drive, jump or vanish off the face without being chased down and hassled, Mark 3:20f. But to blog is to shriek Look at me. Don’t. Please don’t. My blog is inward.

CDR USN (RET) is real. REV (RET) is surreal. A wedding is fun. And a Sunday sermon while crowds munch fried chicken and get sunburned. But two funeral homilies doesn't feel retired.  As a boy I had Places of Refuge. Not Professor Kirke’s meandering house with a wardrobe into Narnia, but one was under the front porch of our house, the front stoop at 321. At the opening on the side of the house by the driveway, slip the cover aside -- I kept the Christmas tree stand there after I got tired of building a new one every Xmas -- crawl in and under and make for the front.

 Dusty. Head down, might be nails. Or spiders, not there if you don’t look up. Crawl to the front of the house, brick wall with a boy-size opening for access under the front stoop. Air vents on each side looking into the shrubbery. A safe place to be. Once, I followed the cat in and witnessed as she gave birth to kittens there. She watched me, okay with my presence. Safe place for her too, and her kittens, though she soon moved them God only knew where.

 Life can be deadly tense, but 79XL is too big and old to crawl under a house and the other place is gone. The other place was under Pop’s fish house. I can see the exact spot from the Beck bedroom of our condo. Gracie Rae’s Bar & Grill is there now. No fair. What to do.

The levee. Or sleep.

Out of here.

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All Chevys.