Bubbles at Mealtime

(Written airborne enroute SFO-JFK)

My upstairs housemates are not the type to give up easily in the face of adversity. Any raccoons who try to deplete our new population of fish are going to have to be willing to go far deeper into the water, as the new pond is bigger, wider, deeper, and has more hiding places for the fish.

So far, so good.

There are reasons this pond and the fish are so important to everyone in our building, though I may not be able to articulate them very clearly. There is something about needing to establish some peacefulness in a time of growing anxiety and fear involved.

Though I rarely think or feel this way myself, today I started fearing that I live alone too much of the time. My kids come and go, which is terrific, but they rarely sleep over at Dad's House -- they do that at Mom's House.

I am not currently in a relationship with anybody, so no one stays with me at all, nor do I stay with someone at her place. It's just me.

As a writer, I need to be alone a certain portion of the time, of course. My writing happens when others are around, but more slowly, with more interruptions, and higher odds that I'll lose my thread.

This evening I am headed back to New York for my second visit inside of a week. That's a lot of flying for a guy who prefers being land-bound, and who has been gazing at the fishpond seeking some answers.

Tonight, back in Manhattan and staying at the same hotel as last week, I intend to once again visit the roof terrace and look upwards at the Empire State Building, just as I did last week.

Alone at the fish pond; alone at the terrace.

Looking down, looking up.

Trying to make some sense of all the senselessness around me.

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