Category: Writing

Last light fades. Doubts settle in with dusk. This path, the path, a path isn’t discernible. The air smells of wood smoke. We trust our fires to burn reasonably and secretly desire uncontrollable consumption. Uncertainty waits in distant hotels as we count ourselves among the victims. This world – glorious and wholly unfair.

The nectarine in the blue bowl is firm, ripe, and unbruised. I imagine the discipline it would take to watch a piece of fruit decay – not a time-lapse, but to do little or nothing else other than watch (for days) as the orange, yellow, and red skin turns sickly brown and softens.

Pale light, slightly yellow. The six am plane flies west. The morning waits like a sleepy bell hop at the end of his shift. The morning wakes like a blue DeSoto in the wide sun of an empty parking lot. The morning crawls like a slow gecko on dew-kissed twig. The morning.

His eyes go funny and the music is boomin’ every time we pass groups of people on the street. Sometimes he waves his hang loose hand out the window. We take the turns too quickly and he sends his impulse through the air. We’re firing through the night and this isn’t Topeka.

A paper-thin arc of a moon hangs in the sky falling and falling backwards towards the earth. Soon it will vanish in the bright wash of dawn.  A line of clouds advances from the west – gray but not forebodingly so. This could be an ocean. These clouds could be the darkened swells.  

Sunshine warms my hands and face, burns against my beating heart. It’s August and the raucous Jays argue in the trees. The lateness of the season carries with it the heavy burden of slow urgencies. In this stillness one can hear a whisper, “there’s still daylight left, what are you waiting for?”

The 10 o’clock sun shines high and warm. A hound dog bays. Its long bark echoes above the trees and cicada hum. A Jay screams from across the way and a Cardinal chirps from a nearby pine. The world gives birth to another day and the world gives birth to another day.

The storm door squeaks open and double squeaks shut. The storm door squeaks open and double squeaks shut. The storm door squeaks open and double squeaks shut. The storm door squeaks open and double squeaks shut. The storm door squeaks open and double squeaks shut. The carpet cleaners are about to start.

The Summer night chirps, chirps, buzzes and chirps. It’s not hot, but the air is as still as though it were. Some nights, we give ourselves permission to be quiet – to not carry on in the days winding arguments and worries. In doing so, we begin to listen, we begin to hear.

A busy mind in the early morning flits, jumps and swings wildly about: jobs, apartments, cleaning, purging, travel, finances, interviews, writing, not writing. In the dawning sky – no clouds and one bird. This should be the meditation, the clearness of the mind. For a moment it is. For a moment it is.

After the winds sweep away the smoke-colored clouds, the sky breaks open to light blue and vivid peach with gold on the horizon. Only the tops of the tallest trees shimmy and blink in this morning breeze.  A note on a scrap of paper amidst the table’s clutter reads, “miles of desire.”

It’s early. The air in the house is still. The only noise is the hum of fluorescent lights and the soft whir of the computer fan. It’s early. It’s too quiet. I open the sliding door to hear the high-pitch whistle of the night – to give movement to the moment. It’s early.