Why I still Need a Chair

I walk down town to pick up beer and a sandwich, and decided on the long way home, Vine to Hill, to Dewey Street.

Pine is a tidy street, neat brick homes from the Thirties and even older frame ones. It rises up Church Hill with a tamarack in one yard, a sumac in the next, and I think old magnolias covered in white blossoms near the top. At Ghost Boy's house there is a rabbit under his swing, another two houses down. They are wild hare, but not so wild as to bolt. Their backs are flecked with white spots, and mottled with tiny pools of red.

Part way up is an old rocker set out for the trash. Now I could use a broken in rocker, and have no lady folk to be riled with my taking it in. It is gray and comfortable looking, but I have to weigh the coast of taking it home. Now any fool would tell you that free rockers don't come along every day, and that evening walks do, but that is why they would be just any fool, for the saying of it. Walks, a good walk, where the world tags along whispering it secrets to you, and the evening sky hums with the turning of the orb into night, those are rare, and well worth the price of fifty free chairs. My feet make up my mind for me, and I continue up to Hill street.

It is a short street, tiny white frame homes from the Forties line it. They are neat and well loved, There is less clover in these yards than on Vine, and the trees are healthy mid-aged maples. Two old men stand in a small driveway disusing the troubles of the world.

I see a thunderhead catching the last light of the day on its anvil, orange and pink, and have to stand in the heat and watch it. In the West, above the wood, red glows on odd spots in the clouds, giving it the look of a great fire. The evening comes on, but no coolness with it.

My feet take me down onto Dewey street. I love to walk this lane, great old houses, some worn and poorly loved, with flaking paint on their ginger bread, others at least a reflection of there past splendor. There is the Imperial oak, bigger than any home, almost taller than any building in Town. Just beyond are the sister maples, giants in there own right. They will cover the whole street when fall comes. A worn out dog watches me with faded interest. A fat tabby floats across a yard, spots of white in the almost dark, giving me only a tail flick like a royal wave. Faint stars show where the clover flowers are hiding in the shadows.

At the end of Dewey is the grand house, not the largest, but made by someone who loved the building of houses, and knew how to show it. Brick and wood are set to working together, holding crystal windows, bright eyes looking out into the world. The great front window is never draped. Capped with etched panes and beveled, it is beautiful. It invites my eyes in to the warm light of the living room. A young girl is cleaning there. In one slow glance I feel the glow the place always gives, and I turn onto my drive.

The beer is warm and the sandwich cold, but I don't care.

Solstice

In the soft light of the living room the yellow wine looks clear. It is the third glass, the last in the box. The AC makes a racket, but I have to pause to even notice it. It is a cheap unit, and reminds me of the one in that first apartment on Oak Street all those years ago. Some things haven't changed.
Only just over two hours ago the last of the high clouds lost their glow. The window is a dark mirror now, my face a shadow with tiny squares of the reflected screen off my glasses' lens for eyes. The long day is over, shorter ones to follow.

6/21/09

Just now men with stones are going up against men with guns. My money is with the men with guns, but my heart is with the ones with stones.

Sales

Small concessions are made, inroads into your honor, until one day you sit wondering if you should use the death of a client to force a sale. Do you ship a post dated order with the dead man's name as a PO? The clock on the screen shifts from yellow to red, as the delay on this clients screen is noted by the computer's idiot brain. A tiny flag will appear on a report, ammunition angst you. You wonder what sort of monster you might just be. You spend the commission in your head. You think of how many bullets come out of the boss's arsenal if you close the deal. Then you work the essential math of conscience, "Can I live with this?"

A black and yellow wasp catches the sun as it hunts grubs among the leaves. Five descending notes are repeat endlessly by a single songbird. The air is warm on the skin until the slight breeze moves it, then cool. That breeze carries the scent of fresh cut grass.

What the hell

Gosh, you know, I feel really good. It's been a shitter of a spring, but the wreckage of assorted romances make a cheery glow in my rear view. Summer is here. My son is headed off to spend it with his Mum. That is scary enough, she is not the sort one usually trusts, but what the hell. He's set on it, and legally that's just how it is. Money, well there is no money, and even less is the likely situation, followed by court orders and garnishment. Hey, what's a body to do? Likely rent will still get paid, and food find its way to the plate.

I will find new ways to embrace the already spartan lifestyle, more introspection, less TV, eating out, and fancy things like telephones and new clothes. Simplicity, that's what I'm all about, yes give me the simple life. Fortunately I have cultivated a taste for more economical beverages. Did you know that cheep rum's flavor can more easily be hidden than cheap whisky's? New times, new skills.

There is still the writing and the art. Truth is, books and contemplation, time with my son, the companionship of friends, and creative pursuits have offered me some of my happiest times. Just as well, because, once I pay of the library fine, these will be the thing left in the budget.

So, why do I feel so good? I can't say, to tell you the truth. The cool night air comes in my window like clear wine, I am alive and aware, there is one last sip of wine left in my glass, if this seems to be enough, then it is.

Spoiled Grain

A bitter taste in my mouth, flat and starchy, I roll it round my tongue, drink it down. Stored behind the walls of Ur, taken to cool the throat after hard days work at Giza, it has been with us since we marked our first words. Simple men and kings have tasted it just as I do now. One last swallow spins in my cup, waiting for me to be done.

It's a quiet night. Even the highway is silent. There is still the faintest hint of tobacco from a neighbor who had smoked beneath my window. The computer hums. the fridge chortles. I think it's time to write a long delayed letter.