alone again, four years later

my voice is slowly returning to normal. during the two nights i spent in new hampshire earlier this week i drank hundreds of gallons of filtered water, and went through at least a dozen bags of herbal tea. i also ate lots of homemade cookies and pie and a third of a tofurky. maybe it all got balanced out, i'm not sure. my voice got scratchier and more painfully pubescent as the night grew later. when the period that free cellphone minutes arrived, and my sweetheart was free to chat, my words were awkward skeletons straining to breathe dusty air.

returning to northampton in the middle of another dubious national holiday yesterday, i marvelled at the deserted streets. i got dropped off at home and didn't leave until well after the sun set and then rose again. i spent a delightful afternoon and evening alone, not straining my voice, doing as i pleased with no agenda to speak of. i grabbed my guitar and then halfway through a song grabbed a book on my bookshelf that caught my eye. i simultaneously strummed a chord and read a quote from an old professor of mine on the psychology of racism. i made tea, baked a pretzel, did whatever i pleased with the bathroom door open. i wore layers and comfortable sat around with the heat off.

i could've spent the day on cape cod with my dad or walked through the streets of plymouth mourning the ongoing genocide of native peoples. but i was content in my solitude, taking care of myself, getting healthy again.