County like Faulkner, City like Joyce

Meant to look up Balaclava; admired word thealmostfere; thought I needed to read George Lefebre;

Maybe writing wasn’t at all what I thought it was. When I made my County like Faulkner, when I made my city like Joyce, here would be a young man running up and down the biggest hill in town, not once, but many times consecutively, facing backward and forward and side to side, his feet weaving in and out in elaborate patterns, this person is a true marvel of unnecessary physical conditioning….

Here is an elderly retired bachelor beginning his morning routine, picking up the newspaper from his door stoop, noting a first chill in the air. He lives in a townhome he purchased in 1972, having never payed more for housing, in his whole life, than 250 a month, approximately 415 yards from the young man who exercises, who is renting an efficiency for 1500. The single old man’s (physical) balance has been bad over the last year or two, or three, and he tries never to be out of arm’s reach of something he can lean on. He exits through the opened garage, hugging the wall, then with a final lunge makes it to the car and drives to the local diner for breakfast….

Here is a single woman, older but yet of working age, who’s woken with a start: she was up too late watching political commentary again and was likely to be miserable all day today. (She’d really lost control of this — oh my god). She had three quarters of a million in her retirement fund but was a renter who felt it would be difficult for her financially to leave her job, which offered wonderful benefits. She moved from the couch upstairs to the bed and would make it into work around 10:30. Always always so much work.

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