Been a while, oh yes. A full year. Fall makes it hit home, the need for a coatrack. By now, so much has changed that I could shake my head at it and move on. Call it an aberration of a brief era. Doesn't really fit though, as the thing would be that much more perfect now, next to the dining room recliner. They'd both then be behind the bar, the only convenient horizontal surface in the dining room. It came with the house, hiding out back in a workshoppy shed.
So it would just fit. Next to the door, as you come in and see a bar. It'd appear as if things were really not as they are. It's not stocked (alas), the bar. Just sitting there. Sometimes we sit there anyway, the two stools I have scarcely tall enough. We put on drunk hats, as we call 'em, and act as if we're elsewhere. As if my house is a pub on the moon. With X-Files on the TV. Wanting to believe.
Believe we do, aye. Moreover, we know. We sit and ramble with silly hats on our heads 'cause that fits just like the coatrack -- this absurd world. We drink and laugh at things. All sorts of things. Anything. The laughter is the real medicine, but the bottles bring back thoughts of the coatrack.
And we can laugh at that too. But this is chapter two, too, and to-morrow, I'm on the hunt for a coatrack, believe you me.
But don't make a practice of believing. Just know.