Take a look boys, park the car. 
See the lady’s battle scars.

I’m back from world travels.  Leland, Dayton, Hendersonville, Columbus (and every chocolate soft serve in between).  A week from now is Warren Dunes and the great Michigan lake that hugs them.  We’ll swim in that amour before the autumn tames us.

Now to use the days of anonymity here at home again, my secret life where no one wonders how I sleep or what I eat or when I go inside.

Time is a curious commodity.  On a trip, I give it up to communal sprites.  Work day, same thing.  But here on this porch of plenty, time calls from the next room to start my engines, cruise into catch up mode.  The folds of laundry.  The balance of accounts.  The unchecked baggage of civilized life.  Like Kudzu of the southern climes, tedium’s tendrils lushly kill, masquerading as life when they are anything but.  Time squelched by weedy tasks is just as gone as death.

What to do with wastrel, lavish stranglers of time?  Ubiquitous as sand, artists stand to claim their time away from so much structured tasking.  We want chrono-gold to procreate and squander!

Oops - was that too loud?  Did it rouse the busy neighbors?  Will the dogs yelp, the cops hush us up, arrest the unmade beds?  Does eternity care if this one day we hike to Everest and back, a fit of brash conniptions in our wake?

Photo Gsmith, Kudzu field, GNU Free Documentation License