My son sits hunched over a tiny sidekick typing to a few friends, mates, neighbors at a time, tiny snippets of conversatios that zip along in an bizarre abbreviated speech pausing occasionally to login to his online game where other friends await, as far away as Australia or England to gang up on each other and participate in their fantastic medieval society that eats lobsters and saws yew logs to get money to buy capes and dragon armor. He romps through the game sitting in his baggy work pants bouncing between the pair of key boards, one the micro the other the macro.
Soon his music is kicked up, Lost Prophets play "A town called Hypocrasy" - he doesn't think it is manly enough to write about but he knows the guitar riffs wont throw me over the edge like the shredder bands he likes. This morning he woke up suffering wishing for bed dragging anchor all the way to school, swearing he would go to bed early tonight and now pumped, tuned in, online, in touch he has nothing of the kind on his mind.
My mother turned Eighty something today. She wants to make a change. I need to make a change. All Saints Day. All Souls day. Day of the Dead. Samhain. We share the dark veil birthday season. 81 I think. Time to make plans.
I wake up and look for the gratitude I can express. The dark morning jeweled by the planet in the east the warm blankets the warm days the pink edge of morning the light traffic our health the view the dog the evenings together I am thankful.