Aug the Fifth
Hello Journal. It feels like it’s been a while since we’ve… well I was going to say “talked,” but that doesn’t quite make sense now does it?
It’s me, it’s not you. I wound up hanging out on the back porch with my folks for the majority of yesterday. I was out the door, halfway down the stairs when they grabbed me and pulled me back behind the screen windows that are less screens and more fly traps. My folks like to compost, they have this little wooden square right next to the bottom of the stairs, it looks like a sandbox for… I don’t know, midgets? Sprites? Faeries? Whichever floats your goat; it’s there at the bottom of the stairs and my folks aren’t–… it’s just them here, so they don’t dump much, but what they do dump gets sampled by the flies. And the flies get fat and bulbous to the point where they can no longer fit all the way through the little holes in the screens. And they get stuck.
My parents’ screened-in porch is an open-air insect mausoleum. Part of me thinks they leave the screens full on purpose, to send a message to all the other airborne insectoids, kind of like Vlad the Impaler did with all those heads he impaled on all those spikes. Yeah, just like that. In a not fucking at all kind of way.
So anyway, yeah, I chilled with my folks all day. It wasn’t… I didn’t have a bad time. It was kind of like catching up with old friends, except in this case the “old” is the literal part and the “friends” is the metaphorical part. Are parents your friends? I remember an old Austin Powers movie where Austin’s dad was like, “We weh roight maytes, yew ‘nd oye!” and Austin, peeved, rebuts with, “Oye di’n’t need a friend, dahd, oye naeyded a dahd!”
And then it got quiet.
Yesterday wasn’t quiet though, we just talked. Talked about what college was like – they had never gone, and every time I came home in the past I was incredibly anti-social because I couldn’t bring weed back with me – I was still afraid of crossing state lines with contraband at that point – so I never told them much about it – we talked about what my plan was now that I’m home, what my old friends are up to (other than
Ca Karl). They know why I left college, they were the first–… the only ones I told before I got back. Huh. Maybe they are my friends after all. They’re definitely parents too, my GOD are they parents, but… I don’t know. I remember when I left I was really happy to get away from them, but now that I’m back and living with them again, part of me is really happy to be here. Huh.
I suppose the only thing that matters is that I’m happy. Or rather, that I’m content. Speaking of which, I am very content with how I spent today. Dodged the folks altogether, snuck out of the house real early and climbed this foothill a few minutes back behind the house – “The Foothill,” it’s called, a relic from the THC days – and watched the sun rise. I brought a hearty amount of weed back there with me, of course, and my phone (airplane mode, shout to ¡MAYDAY!, holla!) and a speaker. I stayed out there all day, just hanging out on The Foothill and smoking, relaxing to some Chillhop lofi I pirated. I built a little firepit too, burned off some of the twigs laying around. It was nice, Journal. It was really nice.
I just got home a few minutes ago. My folks went out for dinner, I saw them pulling out as I was walking up the back steps into the porch. The serendipity is all too real. I may as well be living by myself right now, hah!
… … …
You know, I’ve never considered that before. Up until this point – and I know I just wrote that I was happy, content even, to be back, but I meant that in terms of being with my parents again, not living in Logger’s Pond in general – I never considered staying here. It’s really isolated, really smalltowny, REALLY fucking backwoods. But… honestly, it has its charms. The scenery is absolutely beautiful, a little slice of heaven in a way, a little patch of the Garden of Eden. You can wake up by your own volition rather than by the volition of your neighbors (whether that be next-door or next-floor), hear nothing but the birds and the bees (and whatever other bugs might be crawlin’ around), step outside into the cool morning air and feel the cold dew leave the grass to seep between your toes. Look left and right, not a neighbor to be seen. Just woods. It’s nice, ‘man. It’s special. I wouldn’t want to live here with my parents for the rest of my life – a Mad Poet needs his own space so he can have his “me time” – but perhaps if I had my own locale it wouldn’t be so bad.
Perhaps it wouldn’t. Perhaps it wouldn’t.
… … …
I’m tired. Not tired enough to sleep yet, though. I’m go’n’a need another bowl or two for that at this point, I’ve been smoking since before the sun came up for Christ’s sake. But I am tired. So, so tired.
… … …
Yeah, I think that does it. That’s a wrap, Jack. Got’a get back, back to the past. Samurai Jack, WAH-CHAHH!!
… … …
All right, that definitely does it.
Thank you, Journal. ‘Preciate ya. Good sleeps and good dreams~
Hello Commons, this has been the next journal entry from Untitled Bigfoot Project, a novel about a writer who writes a novel about bigfoot.
Untitled Bigfoot Project is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.
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