Category: Writing

Oblivion is a black hole. If I’m not careful, this day will flirt at its edges. The gravitational forces will start to suck the day in. I may have to grab it by the arm and pull with all my might. It’s early, but I can already feel my grip giving way.

Stagnant air and high humidity. A sluggish morning drips into a sluggish afternoon. Even the blood slows and thickens in the veins. There’s a viscosity to this summer day, swampy and green. Algae grows across the neurons, moss dampens the chambers of the heart. Rain falls in straight lines, washing nothing away.

Sometimes, the sun breaks through the clouds. It’s morning, again – thankfully. The neighbor rides his slow mower across his back yard. Just over the fence, I can see his blue hat drifting out of sight. He’s being carried away on this suburban current. The one that washes away the lazy Saturday hours.

The see-saw lilt of the Black-capped Chickadee echoes over rooftops and trees. An occasional breeze stirs hazy air. The morning is both still and busy. Closely, closely, closely I listen. Chits and chirps and cheeps. Nearby birds like the secretary pool typing away. The static ticker sound of breaking news from yesterday.

Tired and ready for bed but lyrically playful, I write to the tune of “Can’t Find My Way Home.” We walk through this haze. This crazy life maze. Somebody sings off key. I play. I play… revise rewind. I read the lyrics, find the time. But I can’t find my way home.

Twilight yawns and soon it’s evening. Once again, the air comes with a warning label. Being alive has become a health hazard. Life has always been fatal. From the sounds of it, nobody has told the birds about this. They chirp and sing merrily in the falling dusk. Treacherous air be damned.

If the birds sang, I forgot to notice. If the puddles reflected rainbow skies, I forgot to notice. If the June sun felt strong and direct and hot on my back, I forgot to notice. The day has passed. Most of the night, too. If it called my name, I forgot to…

This thunder doesn’t clap. It moves and rolls like heavy furniture. This rain doesn’t drive. It ribbons and lashes. The green-gray green sky swirls and trees dance a frantic dance, all jazz hand leaves and shimmy branches.  This storm rides in on syncopation: floor toms, kick drums, snare pops, and yes, claps.

The day begins in silver light, deck boards slicked in dew. A scribbled note on the front of a plain envelope reads, we go where we sense progress: flow, river, resistance. It’s supposed to say least resistance. Yesterday’s woody path smelled of honeysuckle. The clouds in another country bruise purple and red.

The air is still and almost thick. Barefoot puddles on the deck after the evening rain remind me of summer days and wet sand shores. The sun slides behind clouds. It’s a good burn day. The jays sound like gulls. An ocean of traffic thrums along the boulevard of this Pennsylvania coastline.

Tail wagging and sniffer sniffing, the dog hunts treats hidden throughout the house. It’s a poor substitute for the rabbit he coveted earlier. We make the best with what we’ve got. Today, I’ll feed and water the plants. They’re starting to droop. Today, I’ll dole out treats intended to show I care.