Category: Daily Fifty-Two

Sun floods the view to the west, pouring through the open-air dining room. Men sit alone at the bar – spaced apart as though they were at urinals. They stare at their phones or at the TVs above. One stranger shares with another that in high school he banged the owner’s sister. Men.

The dishwasher I forgot to run last night sings its song: knock whoosh knock, knock whoosh knock. There’s a rhythm to the mechanical. One could walk, shake hips, sway and groove to this sanitizing beat. That is until it stops and gurgles, drains into the kitchen sink and then picks up again.  

This is easier in the morning when the day hasn’t worn record grooves on my mind. The difference between observation and memory is now. “Into the Mystic” plays in my head. A fan whirs and stirs the nighttime air – I imagine how that foghorn blows, the soft release of a gypsy soul.

Tree-covered sloping hills lit green by a patch of sun contrast a dark and stormy sky. We wait for rain that doesn’t come. The band plays on. Strings of Edison Bulbs sway in a serious wind. Groups of friends gather in chairs around fire pits that remain unlit. The band plays on.

Limbo leaves me languishing and lost. This house is big and there are too many rooms in which to wander. I need batteries and check junk drawers and boxes. I throw things away. So many things – little odds and ends. Useful things, just not for me. Unburdened from their responsible care.

In the darkened room at the end of the hall, I stumble into her – nearly tripping over her skirt dangling on the floor. Her softness invites the weight of me. She’s quiet and receiving. She is a silky balm. She’s patient in her waiting. I’m tired and in love with my bed.

Nothing moves in this creamsicle sky. Trees stand resolute. I crack the back door to hear sounds other than the electric light hum from above the kitchen sink. Sound is a type of movement – the birds are still alive. A molten sun appears – too bright to have any shape. Good morning, sun.

Eyes and thoughts drift like falling clouds. This cast of characters gathered ‘round toss glances like stolen candy bars. The woman in the corner whispers to her friends. Her lips repeat yellow number five three times slowly. The tall man ducks below the exit sign as he enters through the swinging doors.

I see my image twice in the orangish-red mirrors of my sunglasses. The curve distorts the coffee mug, makes it look like a TV on a stand behind me. My hand, near the lenses, resting on the computer is gargantuan and elongated. The clear light from the window refracts a sickly yellow.

This isn’t real. The man inching his silver pickup truck back and forth as he parallel parks. The blurry family member talking to me on the front porch. The white ceiling fan with the slight wobble. The red can of Coke sweating in the heat. The plastic webbing of the rocking chair.

A gang of toddlers run wild on a sunny hillside. They chase a yellow and orange soccer ball with dinosaur decal panels. Three boys race in wobbly circles like a small swarm. Legs and arms tangle when they fall in a heap giggling and squirming. They tornado back towards the picnic tables.

The last sip of coffee is cold. The sky is gray, and the breeze is soft. My verbs are softer. Being versus action… this is a morning of little action and mostly being. Quiet observations in the half-light of an overcast dawn. Things are. The ground is wet. The birds are squawking.