June 16, 2015

Sultry afternoon. If I open the back door, a breeze like unto a wind cools the downstairs.  

The assessor the mortgage company hired came here to look things over. He was a presentable middle aged man, and when the hint came that there might be another kind of inspection, I should have been more receptive, though I do not now regret having pretended obliviousness. He had to take photos of the tool shed to insure the company that I was not making bombs or drugs. He noted the supermarket, and said he would have to “offer proof” that it was not noisy and annoying. My say-so was not enough. I wonder what would constitute proof of such a thing. What constitutes proof that something has not happened?
  
Summer rhythm of activity in the morning and evening, sleeping at midday, like an animal in the forest, or an Italian.
  
Sudden realization, out of nowhere, of the damage that serpent AW has done to my life. Well, little damage (if much creepiness) yet as much damage as he was able to do. Like Wormtongue in Tolkien, hiding, creeping, lying, insinuating, patiently finding ways to hurt that kept him safe, smiling his sidelong weasel smile.


Distant thunder.