Wednesday night making love. Fucking? Fucking someone I am in love with.
That sounds right.
Crazy passion with two interruptions. A minute of baby crying two rooms away. A single brief moment looking over and seeing the dog staring, and then when it was over I hear her circle and settle into her quilt with an indignant harumph sound.
Brooklyn Thanksgiving morning and a juggler in tights unicycling down Flatbush Avenue at 10am. No audience. Just balanced happily on one wheel, tooling down the road, and juggling bowling pins.
No helmet either. A rebel living large. When I believed in a god I thought maybe he or she or it put weird shit like this in my path to mess with my head. Now I understand that the weird shit is just there. That I'm not the only person trying desperately to break the monotony of daily human cruelty and insanity.
The sheer monotony.
You can't make up the shit that's actually happening in the world. It makes no sense so when you write it into a story or a screenplay they call you an absurdist, even though it's all the real life shit that everyone is trying hard not to see and acknowledge. So all you can do is mess about to amuse yourself. Get a unicycle and juggle, or tell bad jokes or drink a lot or whatnot. Why not?
Packing cheesecakes off to a small family dinner. I'm happy today, or happy enough. Happiness almost feels like revenge some days.