Friday, January 22, 2010
LXXV: Clarke XIII: Home Alone
Most of the time I spend with Clarke is wordless. Ten minutes of silence, and then a few words, then ten more silent minutes. That's about the rhythm. I read through my old Clarke entries on this blog recently and realized all I've written so far is our talking. 'Cos what else can I do? But it's not like that. Not really. Mostly we sit and drink and smoke and think our own thoughts.
"I'd make a good hermit," Clarke told me last night. I was on my way out the door after an unusually conversationless evening.
"You are a hermit, Clarke."
"Yeah, Leonore thought so too." He looked at me knowingly. "She always wanted to go out, be out, get out. But I'd much rather sit on the sofa, drunk, at home."
“I met a hermit once,” I said. “When I spent that summer logging up north. He grew potatoes in an oil barrel. He was really nice."
"I couldn't be alone with Leonore. She wanted me to share my thoughts with her. All of them. That's why there're no female hermits."
"Goodnight Clarke,” I said laughing.
I shut the door and walked home. I was glad to be there, alone.