It’s not summer yet, though the days are warm and bright. I tell myself the days are like steps upwards, one after another. But I’ve fallen behind in some important way. Nothing begins. One day, and another, and I’ve still not opened the door.
From where does that line come, the door into summer? I remember it only as the title of one of Robert Heinlein’s juveniles, which I used to read one after another. Tonight I tell myself my whole life is an alibi for another life unlived. And when will it begin, the other life? Who is living it, on the other side of the mirror?
Bob Mould, I read somewhere, would record a whole bunch of songs in a similar mood in an evening. The song, Hair Stew had brothers and sisters, but that’s the only one we get to hear. But I’d like to hear every one, just as I would like to write five posts a night, all in the same mood, each a variant of a single post like the ones Kierkegaard’s pseudonym composes at the beginning of Fear and Trembling. But a post I can never write, unlike the story of Abraham retold by Johannes de Silentio.
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