Saturday, September 20, 2008

Saturday, July 19, 2008

I sit on my porch, a Saturday early evening on the Eastside. The rains murmur a hazy sprinkle against the awning over me. I look up, holes pierce the vinyl like starlight in the night; I watch the constellation of holes increase. Still here I sit, hugging the receding dry spot of wooden porch shortly after the storm that passed. The earth is soaked with this harvest of rains today; the pungent vapors escape the plants drinking their feast.

My eyes scan this urban landscape, drawing the deep colors of summer’s watershed onto memory’s canvass. Cars sing acappella to the wet cement, a train blows caution in the distance, and this self-proclaimed writer finally cracks that wall of resistance in this day.

I line in an Eden of luscious grass and flowers, tucked like puzzle pieces of oasis complimenting asphalt and cement. When did the world become a wilderness of architecture dotted by nature’s rebellion? We no longer crouch on Mother Nature’s backdrop, but she on our churned up cities of stone and mortar. We captured her in walls & grids as we carved out and redefined this whole continent.

Mmm. I am no visionary, no Cassandra here. I have no intention of giving head to the dire thoughts in the world. Simply a witness to the day.

Two smokers loiter together on the cellar stairs to the old fire house across the way. We mirror our habits in juxtaposition, our only geometry to the day. They linger in conversation, a break from some play rehearsal, I suppose. The rains pick up, staccato beats crescendo; a bird whistles a warning to the car passing by. Me, I’m finally working at something after a long day’s break. I do laundry, wash dishes, sweep and watch TV after cooking a meal. I can’t seem to escape the laziness in this day to put words to page.

My pant leg begins to feel the traces of rain drops encroach my sanctuary. I’m curled into all ball, legs feeling my heart beat in my chest. I am trying to get just a few more minutes outside on the porch.

and then I finally yield to the rainy day. I grab my coffee cup that has begun to catch the drops from the constellation above. I head inside.

~Journal Entry, current book~

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Making Pictures with a Cloudy Mind

Yet another early morning, I watch daylight kiss the forehead of the sky as I wrap my jacket tighter around me. September has only begun and summer already acquiesces her warm breath to the darkening night. My mind feels like a mushy mess this morning as I have spent the night awake working the job. Shifts picked up for the “holiday” pay, I celebrated Labor Day with my own labor paid double. There’s pride in being a hard worker, my internal dialogue of self whispers at me with a southern twang that still lingers in the family accent of my upbringing. My family has been northerner’s for three generations and yet remnants of our ridge runner ancestors still linger in our tongue.

I find myself staring at the sky like a backdrop of fabric that is slowly turning from black to hew of pink and blue light. I am eager for the heat of the day to begin. I am eager to be done with the job too, which doesn’t end until 5pm as I have the freelance gig to walk into once this shift is done. I put hands to back, twisting my shoulders to crack their stiffness. I wish I could pull the sky down around me and wrap myself in it, imaging the ozone to be mole hair soft curled around my shoulders. I chuckle at these awakened fantasies of the mind. I think I need some sleep.