(This is just a spontaneous post of a short narrative (below this block of words) that will appear in a slightly different format/edit in my upcoming book-object (properly called I guess in a more sociological sense, what humans call a novella) attached the bizarre title Sleep Walking Under The Moon Soul of Lake Michigan.
Speak…and so as I walked to the library and while I sit here within all of the voices what caught me off guard was a new Albert Camus hardcover book, such a consumer of nostalgic dead writers I can often unknowingly become. And damn man, everyone talks non stop here, even the workers, and the only thing talking that isn’t out-of-place in the library is the fan above my head… spinning…spinning….and anyway, yeah, on my walk here I was thinking, man, just lucky to see all of this, just lucky to be alive. Still warm in Michigan. The date is November ninetieth 2012. That sun I tell ya. It was warmer than sixty today or damn close. Maybe not strange, but maybe just… nice.)
Indian Summer In Michigan
You stand there wondering if you’re suicidal. On the ledge you hear the vacuum of the same old world distorted by your same damn ears. You stand there wanting to jump, but knowing it would hurt…pain, and you hate pain; the fall probably wouldn’t even get the job done, for you were born with the instinct, damn, of, damn-it, of the survivalist.
You stand there alone floating on a lost dredgers island. Behind you…shaking-poles without-flag-held-up with piles of rocks, lazy eyes, your eyes.
You jump over to an abandoned fisher’s island, and as a bird you sit on part of the land that has fallen away from the rest. Alone. Old docks. Everything, you, even you, are falling into the lake.
Death. Winter. Falling. Back. The wind isn’t cold; the wind from the north, from the south, and this year, October has been silent.
Now. November. Still, the Indian summer, as everything is forgetting how to live and die, and trees do grow and trees do die, and branches laugh and shadows at your feet….forgetting, everything.
The sound of boats above water, and the lake has evaporated. The city is here, and you’re north, the north of it all. Silent. Alone. Stable with the wind you’re Falling back, towards death.
This year, since the middle of the previous march, the Indian summer, has forgotten how to fade
Adventures In American Writing 