Momjam

I'm eating the currant jam that's been in my fridge door for two years, the preserved jelly from the 2011 berries my mom picked from the bushes below Hoover Street, that she canned and sent to me from Nelson, BC, all the way over here. "The toxicity of our city", I'll quote, and not not quote, because my culture is trash, my references are impoverished, and I'll just embrace that like a stiff board in subzero January.

Ignoble savage prose-stylist. Thank God some make use of leisure time with study and experiments yielding theories to advance human understanding, or at least applied science, that being, to technology, that I consume. We're all dead anyway. Maybe the world's careening toward the end, maybe it's not, but my life's gonna end, and so's yours, that's a sure bet. What dreams may come? Perhaps, in the soliloquizing between now and then, I'll find a way to accept blackness, and not need to have some dream to ease the perceived bleakness of that being it, the end. And should I manage that feat, at that moment, after such a long journey and eventual arrival at that edge, it will instantly become irrelevant, my acceptance or lack thereof, because suddenly, wishful thinking will have vanished from the equation and it could just as well be a new beginning because I won't be clinging to some pitiful scrap of the macrocosmic drifting celestial permutation that I insist is me and all I perceive and must exist otherwise nothing exists! (for all intents and purposes, as far as i can see)

January's such a beautiful sounding name, names really sway me, sustain reveries, bubbles, carbon-based heat-traps, dendrite-dependent consciousness... i can't edit but who's counting, who's reading? i'm reading george orwell essays - tallying sheep, art and concrete, washing the dishes of the lawyers who work as a team to wash the dishes of the litigious money-shuffling fuss-budgets who make possible the kitchen sink we all enable in a clusterfuck co-dependency with our unequally-apportioned specialized skill-sets. If I don't volunteer for early die-off, then maybe one of the useful people, who isn't swamped with requests for re-training, might be kind enough to show me how to do a little of everything, to get by without the power grid - it would have been wise to learn to like the earth and the outdoors and gardening, but I never did, even a little, I became this person I am, who is better suited to living in a space colony, set aside for the epic galactic arc, a prodigal return that involves the circle of hell that is plasma before a humble homecoming to the nomads where they happen to be after all that space-bound-time

there's still preserves of currant jelly, Mj2011 vintage, for when I run out of frozen and canned food, and I'm too lazy to cook anything, even though I'm hungry, but not too lazy to write. I feel good for eating the jam, at long last. It's a taste of home, and a reminder of mom.