February 26, 2004

• newspapers piled on my lawn

   

  With a pop, life burst on the scene.

   

  On Wednesday, I read the morning paper. 

   

  It’s Wednesday.  I flip through the sports section and read about Sosa and his broken bat.  I read through the Arts section and pretend that I am cultured.  I skim through the classifieds and look for juicy deals.  I read the front page and float abreast of the news.  The world is swirling around me as I sip my cup and watch how the cream floats in concentric circles – whatever I’ve mixed is a mistake because I simply pour and drink; I’ll let the sugar and cows settle where life’s math demands.  Standing on my balcony overlooking an ugly city, it’s achingly early and the caffeine feels just right.

   

  I look myself in the mirror supporting my body on elbows pink from the pressure.  I’ll shave soon, cutting away these hard nighttime strands of rugged life gone dead.  The sound of water runs around an ivory basin telling me to whisper.  I am readily quiet and with each stroke, there’s another layer of me that’s chafed and clean.  My eyebrows come from my mother, my chin comes from my dad and I whisk it bald before I begin.  I look myself in the mirror and it’s a different me because it’s a different morning.  I hear the rumbling.
  
  Try sitting in the kitchen with the lights off; it’s better.
  
  I dreamt last night of an atomic explosion.  I remember looking out the window, seeing a bright light suddenly appear.  The flash was sharply silent and bright like the presence of God.  For a moment, I was blind but recovering my senses, you and I huddled in the closet corner, feeling the house shake because the blast was at a distance.  I don’t know how but I remember being warned of the attack somewhat in advance and yet, I did nothing to prepare.
  
  There is always something to report.  We are always reporting on TV and to our boss.
  
  Did I wake you?  Well, it was only the rumbling; it’s the engine chomping at the bit.  I put on my smile, dimpling it right; my best suit covers my birthday.  I gather pens and paper, books and old letters.  I want to read War and Peace in a better setting.  The sun is rising and the frost melts on the grass in my backyard.  Good morning, my dog is barking.

  A head start is ineffectual.  Time doesn’t move faster because you crack the whip.

  I touch the glass door and see the old swing rattle its chains, reddish brown from rain.  It is cold to the touch and it is sapping heat from mug-warm palms.  I make my way outside.  A gray sky is turning blue. 

  The grass breaks beneath me.

  It’s been waiting ready for weeks.  I open the hatch and settle down nicely; this is my millennium home.  I flick switches, push buttons, nod my head to a gobbledygook of lines flashing.  The rumbling pushes through the seat and rattles my teeth which mimics the engine.  The sun is blooming; the city is waking.  I will forgo my routine bagel but business will be none the worse for wear.  I will not be there to smile at the lunchtime waitress today.  She is a complicated girl but regardless, we are of a different pedigree.
  
  In the news, there will be something breaking.
  
  The countdown is over.  It’s time and there’s a fiery cloud billowing and trailing; the supports fall away.  Through a thick window, I see a house growing smaller.  There’s something sweet about it.  It circles and it rises up and it’s caught in the wind.  I ruffle feathers along the way and entire flocks of geese are knocked from their path.  Machines dance elliptically around the globe and send songs with their signals.  With time, I lose my green-blue reference point and I can no longer say I am moving upwards.  But I am far, far away.  When I talk, everything is a whisper.  Gaining speed, I am pressed pink against my seat.
  
  There is a pop in my ears.
  
                                 Pop.
  
  Now, if you make your way up the hill where the bus stops twice a day and turn to the East, it behooves you to take a picture.  If it’s sunny, you’ll capture my home in a frame, my favorite window caught between the tops of yoshino cherry trees swaying.  Look past the manicured lawn and carefully examine the cedar gateway.  That’s the door where you should enter; note the dent from much inquiring.  Look even closer and study the mat where you will stand.  This picture will serve as a map when you make your way there. 
  
  Welcome: that’s where I used to live, see.  
  
  —   
  
  
  
  Man with Dog (B. Fernando)
  
  —
  
  American Landscape, 1920
  
  Hopper was conscious of this background, though he merely obliquely alludes to it, reducing the elements in the picture to a minimum: a few cattle, a railroad line, a house in an indeterminate landscape.  Sheeler, in contrast, in a painting of the same title, strove for absolute clairty and definition.  Hopper’s standpoint was not critical, but merely dispassionate.  He depicted things as he saw them without making value judgments.  (Ivo Kranzfelder, Hopper.) 
  
  —
  
  Thunderstorms here!  It started raining so hard that I could barely see ten feet ahead.  A fun but harrowing experience. 
  
  —
  
  Now enjoying:
  
  
  Burrito
  
  

  Matt11:28
  
  

  • 12:23 am
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