Tension Envelopes Reflux

Saw that ol' Tension Envelopes sign yesterday. It's near the end of 80, just before it becomes 95, in New Jersey. Ridgefield Park? Bogota? Too tired to Google it, having driven some 500 to 600 miles in one day yesterday, transporting the older of two daughters, en route to DC to Scotland to Berlin, all by way of shoes en pointe, despite a broken pinky toe, despite the distances of miles and the appetite of blossoming opportunity and adventure, items which made me pause on Broadway over by 96th, wondering do I wander downtown courting mischief, or do I turn onto the West Side Highway, head north, over the GWB, back into NJ, through PA, and then onward and upward? Which is what I did (the latter, that is; or The Ladder, that is, the one of a dozen steps), calling her again as I headed west on 80, telling her I was passing the Tension Envelopes sign, it looks like a working concern, thanking her for taking a digital snapshot of it on the way in, and her remarking that, well, some people work best within a tension envelope, and both of us tacitly knowing that my particular tension envelope was sealed with the air of love, apprehension, hope, relief, paternity, and surrender. A surrender worth getting down on one's knees for today, but not something I did, did I -- and only thought of today, bludgeoned by a friend's gonging reminder of what a lack of gratitude can exact in one's life.

So, 'Asan, visiting from the Brac, and I chatted it up all the way from FP, NJ to CNY, regaling each other with stories of mayhem, grief, hilarity, and heart-rending honesty. Yaaassssssss, yassss, sort of like Neal Cassady and friend -- though we now know Kerouac was more likely to take the bus, or end up home on LI with Mama, nursing his alcoholic remorse.

Never drowsy.

Too hyped up on anxiety, adrenalin, and caffeine.

Getting there just the same.

Hitting home, not the same at all.

Feeling hung over

from memory

loss

and attachment

today.

Just for today.