It’s raining. I am sitting by the pond’s edge. The ducks are perturbed, but they’re assholes, so I can’t say that I care what they think. I’m back “home,” after spending three entire twenty-four hour periods in the middle of a cowfield which sprouted tents and toys and music and art for the course of one weekend. Being back feels weird.
There are joggers circling the lake, even in the rain. I make assumptions about them: “I could never talk to any of them about the current state of industrialized agriculture in our society, or the narrative implications of white middle-class American culture’s lack of a trickster figure.” These may very well be silly assumptions, but I am afraid to test them. I smile at a jogger. She smiles back. I am afraid of her running shoes.
There are people who live far away whom I can call if I fish my phone out of my pocket, and ask them, “What do you think of Marquez’ comparison of love to disease in Love in the Time of Cholera? With more and more people generating their own power for electric companies to buy back, what do you think will happen to solar power as it threatens the longterm viability of our current model of power generation and distribution?” But I’m afraid to interrupt their work days.
There are people who live nearby who could maybe come over for coffee tonight and we could talk game design and politics, but mostly I’m scared I bore them.
The ducks are yelling at me, waddling halfway up to me before taking a step back, unsure. Yes ducks, you’re right. I know I’m the problem here.