Reds in Reading

The last few weeks have been bad weeks. They have been some of the worst. It has had nothing to do with coming to England (I think that has helped). It also has had nothing to do with my generalized lack-of-dogs condition (I think that hasn’t helped, but still…) I know this sounds ominous and cryptic. I’m sorry about that. You can just ignore all of this. I actually really want you to. Because it’s not my style to be this way.

Or maybe it is. Maybe it is exactly my style.

Do I have a style? Do I have a me, now? Now that every instinct seems wrong. Every familiar muscle memory is cut. Every sound. Every mannerism. Every hope.

Do I have a me? Now? Did I ever?

In the car, my hands reach for things that aren’t in the places my hands expect the things to be. I have to fight natural urges to make wrong-way turns and I have to consciously think about making the right-way ones. I have to learn the things I’ve already learned. I have to do the things I’ve already done. Be the person I’ve already been.

My voice hates not speaking through a dog.

My voice hates the sound it makes when it is alone.