It was definitely thunder that I heard…. the sky was clear, but something was brewing. In lots of places around the country, summer brings pop-up thunderstorms. My experience in Memphis is that these things come out of nowhere pretty quickly. I stood on my balcony for a few minutes watching the lightening, and then the rain, and then a few chunks of hail. I moved inside when a large hornet or cicada killer (not sure which) decided my balcony would be the best place for it to take cover from the deluge. I probably watched the storm for about fifteen minutes. There was that familiar smell that only summer rain seems to have, a combination of dampness and dirt carried from somewhere off in the distance. There was the sound of the rain, constant and almost calming – it has so many different sounds: the sound of it hitting the roof and the sound of it funneling down the gutters and the sound of it in the puddles on the concrete. Plinks and plops. It has its own volume both in space and sound. I watched sheets of rain come down as the wind shifted – localized weather fronts moving across the rooftop. I went over to my phone to check Memphis whether on twitter. 2 minutes ago it issued a severe storm warning for Memphis…. already 13 minutes into a severe storm. I’ve learned to not depend on the weather reports. At least three or four times I’ve left my apartment under the promise of clear skies only to get caught in downpours and at least a dozen times I’ve opted to stay in to avoid storms that never materialized. The staying in always bothers me more than the getting wet.
My walk this morning was full of internal conversation. The first half of the walk was a fiction piece that I was working on. The premise is that the narrator is recalling a time four years prior when he had a his first and only heart attack at the age of 52. He didn’t exactly see his life pass before his eyes, but he had a series of memories as he waited for the ambulance and then rode to the hospital. That series (perhaps one per minute) would be the jumping off point for telling his story – 30 or 40 vignettes. I think at the end of the series of recollections, we learn that he is in his final days of fighting off cancer. He’s realizing that most things in life didn’t work out or were pretty temporary and that all he has in his possession are these moments. Did he live a good life? What do the memories matter if he doesn’t narrate his story? By the time I got to the train bridge, my thoughts had shifted away from the story and I started paying attention to the physical things around me: the mayflies squished flat on the metal bridge below; the train cars stopped on the tracks next to me; the rusty train wheels with edges worn so shiny and smooth you could hear the metal on metal squeal and smell the friction in their silvery reflection; the last car of the train with graffiti that ready “Happy BDay N.”
For much of my walk back I wrote a letter (in my head) to my ex. I’ve written this letter a few dozen times. Sometimes it’s an attempt to soften her heart and win her back. Sometimes it’s an attempt to say goodbye. Sometimes it’s asking her to be more careful with people in the future – she may not intend to hurt anyone, but she has to know that she has a tendency to draw people in and then leave. How could she not know this? In one version of the letter, I ask what happened that made her decide to propose to her husband – had she pushed him too far away? In another version I don’t say any of those things and instead talk about how we’re both symbolic people looking for meaning in the smallest things and actions, rocks thrown in to oceans, small gifts, lasting images. I was reminded of a line from a poem “Oh, everything’s true / at different times.” I didn’t spend a lot of time writing this letter, but much like the vignettes – time almost stands still when you’re that deep in thought.
I came home sweaty and tired, surfed the net, took a 10 minute nap, frittered away time until it was time for lunch. I had another simple lunch – bread, oil, cheese, and tomatoes. I picked up the cheese (and some ice cream – Cherry Garcia) last night as I made my way home from walking along the river. It’s that prepackaged stuff – I think I bought Havarti. I would much rather have something locally made. There was a place back in Jersey, Cherry Grove Farms – they made great cheese. I’m not sure Memphis is a cheese town. It doesn’t have that artisanal vibe. I’m not sure it has small market shops like DiBruno Bros. or the places that dot small Philly neighborhoods – fresh hand-made pasta, cheese, bread.
The storm has already blown through, the sun is back out, and I’m sure the heat and humidity are back too. It feels like the day after a holiday or a birthday – you expect there to be some lingering fanfare, but it’s oddly quiet and you kinda hope someone will break the silence and offer up something to do.