From my bed this morning it sounds like someone is mowing his lawn right outside my window. I know this can’t be true because 1. It’s 4:30 in the morning and 2. My window overlooks a sidewalk. I consider for a second whether or not I am imagining this sound, whether it spilled out of my dream, instead of the reverse. I decide to get up and have a look.
It’s a truck.
It’s a truck, but it’s so dilapidated it might actually be a lawnmower with a cab on the front and some rotted wood panels duct-taped on the back. Some guy is routing through the garbage cans lined up on the street, while the driver slowly inches forward behind him like a hungry pedophile following a pack of cheerleaders.
This is how I wake up.
I have a good yawn and a stretch and a scratch. I wish I could be that industrious. They are looking for pieces of metal, these pirates. It can’t be a big moneymaker but there they are, driving through the nabe, searching for bits and scraps to trade in and hustle a couple of bucks.
Lately I get stuck in the morning trying to think of things to write about. I think maybe I should post a few photos. I think about how I should write more about myself, and my secrets, about my relationships and desires and what’s happening with my career. About one person I miss so much I get a pain in my chest when I think of him; about how I wish things didn’t have to be so difficult. And then I think in an odd way I already am writing about those things, that they may sound like one thing but really they’re another.