Carbon Copy

I pulled out the tennis racket and tube of balls only to discover that the only court you could play solo on was in use. Why not have more backboards, or whatever they're called? I mean, when you want to hit some tennis balls, you don't always have a friend to hit them back and forth with. And sometimes you really just want to play tennis by yourself. So I ditched them in my back seat and started thinking about what to do for the next little while. I had to get out. Mostly I was just annoyed, and I wanted to get away from things, be silent, hit some tennis balls. I noticed the gate to the Logan cemetery was open, so I found myself entering onto the paved road. The sprinklers had been on again and left puddles running the length of the road and reflecting the trees. They seemed to make a depth deeper than the graves, but I remembered that it was just an illusion. Really, they were flat, standing bodies (albeit small bodies) of water, and if I stomped in them, or even just spit in them, they would shift, and the pure reflection, so clear and real, would be gone.

Not that I'm trying to make this all deep or anything. I could really care less. (Should it be, I couldn't really care less?) I don't even know why or what I'm writing. Mostly, I just want to say "damn" and throw a rock or kick a pinecone, and I don't even know why. It's silly to think it's just because of the night not being how I expected.

I dropped my storytelling class today. I have no plot, nor do I want to come up with one. My life is not a plot with a climax, or even mini-climaxes. It's just one day after another. And all I could think of was the times I went to the cemetery to get away from it all. In Plains, Mt. - watching a couple sit in a truck, eating ice cream cones together (who eats ice cream cones, sitting in a truck in a cemetery). Skipping Art History at the U to visit the SLC cemetery. The camellia -covered cemeteries of South Carolina. And then I thought of different states I had driven through - Massachusettes, Montana, South Carolina. All just roads stretching out ahead. There was no rising action, no point of attack, no climax and no resolution.

But it doesn't mean that nothing happens. In fact, after driving poets to the airport last weekend, my mind has been racing with unwritten poetry. Everything takes on significance, and I think of how that image would line up with the mackerels on ice.

Anyway, that's all I wanted to say.