The air says not a word. All about, it is laden with the water weight that comes with an atmospheric desire for rain. The air clings to my skin like a blanket in the summer time heat. I enjoy meditating, because in doing so, I suddenly do not need to fill the silence and absence. I dislike meditating, because then I must watch as the waves of recursion break on the shores of my everything.
Palms sweat as they ache to know: what are we here to create if not shelter, if not fire, if not food or drink? What are we here to create? Or are we meant to grasp, to hold, and fumble with our abilities. Perhaps these appendages are instruments to be played in the communication of longing.
I crack open a beer. The bottle opener is on my porch, it has been there for several days. It sits on a table next to Nietzsche’s Thus spoke Zarathustra. When I have nothing much to do, I read this and then stare off into the mountains. The beer tastes of light wheat, hops, lacking malt but rich in citrus and spices from the zingiber family. For many months I drank no alcohol, knowing that I could be drunk merely 8 ounces in. But now I know how calorie deprived this body is. How hungry and aching and longing this stomach has been. The excuses I have used to deprive it can not hold themselves up any longer, when I spend hours in a stupor after work-with an ache in the spot between my frontal and parietal lobes rather than doing something – anything – that I love I know it is time to begin feeding again. Yes, it is time again to eat, drink, and be merry.
At work, a man points to a pastry and asks, “Is that a Madeline?”
“Yes, I say.”
“Have you ever read Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past?”
I think, many a good scholar has turned away from that. I think of the movie, Little Miss Sunshine and inwardly laugh. I shake my head… “It’s just a little bit too long for me. Have you?”
He admits to not having gotten very far, but then says, “I always think of it when I see Madelines. He spends the first 80 pages writing about Madelines.” I personally stumble to describe these pastries beyond 3 words. A customer gave me half of his the other day, when we started stocking them. “Spongy, cake like…” Perhaps I will read it so that I can better describe pastries. Perhaps if I ate a few more, I could say.
I used to be a poet, but then the ball was rolling, and I thought for a split second I could be a scientist. Scientists describe what they observe. Poets observe what they describe. I am now maybe more facets of one shattered gem. In reality though, I am simply bored, and drinking a beer. My father once told me that he found it quite endearing that I could nurse a pint of beer over the course of an entire evening.
At one time, I had a bar I would go to every Wednesday. It was called “Bar on A,” and it was my type of place because it was a bar on A street. Pretty damn hard to forget where it was. Being a regular, the bartender learned a few things about me, the first was not to let me leave until I started writing. The second, was not to serve me a second drink unless someone else was buying. The third, was not to allow me a third unless that someone was talking about books: a lot. The staff looked out for me. I don’t miss it. One of my favorite lines to a poem was born there, but I do not miss that place at all. Today is Wednesday, I wish there were someone here to talk about books with. Perhaps, If I were to read some more books they will exist.
Yesterday I rode my bicycle around town. The wind pulled up my skirt and caressed my thighs as I rode. I dipped through a nature trail, and when I hit pavement again, learned that the wind had also untied my hair. The wind does as it pleases.
That is all for now.