Dedicated to Memory.

The primary piece I am working on right now has moved from the Wu-Tang to memory. Last night I was handed a notebook I had entrusted to a friend with the hope that he would burn it. Now I am flipping through it burning, remembering things I wrote in the 2000/2001 period of my life. I found the following piece and it reminded me of a couple of things I have written here recently. I think I meant this as the start of a short story.
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The drive was long and the thought of a cold beer had been with him since the turnpike. A moment or two after the cars had pulled into the awry driveway he rubbed his temple, saw a pine needle curl on the heat of the Chevy's hood. Soon a can of something domestic was limp in his hands, soon he was finding a convenient ledge to set it down as everyone moved around him.

There were bubbles in his throat, there were brown bags of groceries in white arms with tatoos, endorphins numbing his throat, people he knew with gym bags. He looked around, found the water, his fishing pole and more beer with one look. There he cast and drank one. It was four o'clock, the lake roiled with boats. Boys floated on plastic tubes, men sat around their docks talking about or working on their property. He cast towars a raft, knowing it too far to reach. Girls and women were in the sun, the sun was in the water, the water caught the cast and held it.