Vung Tau

I am not a big fan of pharmaceuticals, but I have made an exception on this occasion. Which alters the playing field a bit. I think it was the phrase ‘pinched nerve’ that sent me over the chemical precipice. And boredom. I have not intentionally ingested any intoxicating substances in over four years, simply because I constantly ask myself, “David- what about this situation makes you not want to be here?” And usually, by the time I get around to answering, I am not really interested in escaping it anymore. But lying in bed alone for most of the day presents a different version of that conundrum. I get tired of answering the question. Pain, blah blah blah. And whump, there it is, and here we are, writing paragraphs about nothing in particular, mostly just to enjoy the segmented pressures and rhythms of a computer keyboard on fingertips.

 It is a gorgeous day in Nashville. We have had a long run of gorgeous days. It is the best Spring I can remember, a Norman Rockwell Spring, a light and pleasurable thing full of sprites and nymphs and freshly cut pineapple juice dripping off nipples.

 Paul Deakin and I began building an awesome fence around my front yard last week. (A mishap with an 80 lb. bag of concrete had a lot to do with my current condition) Paul has soldiered on without me and is making fantastic progress. The fence will be 36 inches high with horizontal slats of 6, 4, and 2 inch widths, arranged in a pattern that implies modernity without looking too pretentious in front of an 80 year-old bungalow. Once the wood dries out I will stain it a dark chestnut. I am completely revamping the landscaping of the front yard, bringing the beds well out into the middle along a border curved like the Cumberland River. I think this will contrast the sharp angles of the fence nicely. The holly bushes I transplanted to the corner seem to have made it through the worst so I think I will counter them with a big winged burning bush in the opposite corner flanked by this particular sedum I found online a couple of months ago but have not been able to locate since. Stan will spend hours prowling the new beds, nose down, pausing occasionally to execute that particular hunch of his before fertilizing, mightily.

 Liz opened a window in the bedroom yesterday and it has made all the difference. I can hear the finches and the cardinals and the reassuring thump of pneumatic nail guns finding their purchase at the construction site a block away. Most of the slats on the blinds are still closed, filtering the Spring; Spring louvered, Spring geometrisized, le d’Angles of Spring. Even though, or perhaps because, the temperature is absolutely perfect, I indulge in hallucinations of hypothesizing in a sweat-soaked bed, perhaps in Marrakesh, or Ho Chi Minh City, the clatter of a town square just below a window ledge over which I can only see endless powdery blue. The ceiling fan spins and wobbles on its arm. A small child knocks tentatively at the door, then enters upon receiving a wary nod. Hesitant, he holds a folded piece of paper towards me. Read it, Harry, I wheeze. He unfolds the parchment. Monsieur Govou, he begins in a tiny voice, we have reason to believe that your true identity has been compromised. There is movement in the corner of my vision: a catch of heron rising against the blue outside the window, then flying off together in the direction of Vung Tau.