This Is Not a Poem

Today is stormy and pretty and orange-gray and there are blackbirds under the canopy and I have black cherry soda in the fridge. I am saving it for something, but I cannot say what that might be. When I imagine the future there are less people and bigger plants and we all wear tunics. I am reading The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K LeGuin. The house is full of books and this makes me feel comfy and safe although this is probably an illusion. I have the whole day to myself tomorrow and I am thinking of roasting a big head of cauliflower and eating it.

I have all kinds of ideas these days but have been lax in writing them down.

I have had too much time to spare and I fear it has made me lazy. I seem to move slow, as if walking on sand in backless shoes. I want to sit on the porch and smoke cigarettes except that I have never smoked cigarettes and in fact, don't even like to be around secondhand smoke but somehow the idea is appealing and brings to mind a previous era and I would like to revisit a past that I have never lived.

I have decided I might like to spend a year traveling in one of those shiny silver campers. I would make homemade jewelry out of semiprecious stones and colorful beads and sell them by the side of the road and cook meals over a campfire and meet all kinds of different people and it would be wonderful.