dusk to dawn
It’s late. DayDate in the upper right corner reads Mon 3:58 AM. A decent sleep after a decent day and before another. Day follows day. And night, night. Also dawn, dawn, eh. Actually dawn, dusk, and there was evening and there was morning, another second day. Still a month before the shortest day of the year. In two weeks Hurricane Season is over and we can relax another six months, but, hey! spray in the face so avoiding the concrete steps because the sprinkler is going and walking down the side street to get the PCNH, almost hurricane weather. No breeze, that’s a stiff wet wind coming up Calhoun in my face. Flash of lightning over the Gulf. Green channel marker across the darkness: that you, Daisy?
A sharp tornado hook looking at Greensboro.
It’s what to write? isn’t it. No, it isn’t what to write, it’s what not to write. A friend reading my post gets my temperature, another reads between my lines. Some get me well enough to give, not caution, but maybe pause? What would I not have suspected? Am I completely open? No, this is a blog not a journal. Why so cryptic this morning, I feel like I’m sneaking down an alley, darting from garbage can to garbage can, pausing behind a dumpster to look round and make sure no one is following. That I’m not being followed. Is that you back there, Carroll? I see you.
Some mornings are more weird than others, some not. And some blog posts. Some evenings too: I don't go to a concert to stand and applaud, but to escape; at the concert last evening I disappeared into the music and tried to stay, struggled with whether to come out, they had to come get me. Especially the Williams piece from Schindler’s List, though I didn’t hear the siren this time. I felt the cold, watched the folk dancing but didn’t hear the siren, the Gestapo coming in their black maria. The music is so real it takes you where you wish no one had ever had to live and die: doomed and afraid.
After the concert: a leftover meatball from Sunday dinner, pills with leftover tea, early to bed. Dawn. Monday.
W