Chiaroscuro

One of the worst places to be in is between laughter and tears. There is that series of seconds tracing indecision that is almost painful especially in the afternoons, when the eyes take the most time to adjust to the dis/appearance of shadows.

Cornflake, or somewhere along that hue

This morning, I watched the sky turn from black, to indigo, to sienna-tinged, to powder-blue. Along the lines, I remember thinking it was a bit dark for 5 o'clock, then quickly forgot about it as Miles Davis started playing in the background. I was glad that I remembered to look outside. Because I'm writing again, I'm once more aware of things, my senses alert to my surroundings, my psyche alive with the rest of me. But I'm sure I would edit that line out, mentally, once I'm out of here. The coffee waits. Let it wait.                                                                                                                                       I am seriously starting to pine for my books; been lately wondering if I'll ever get them back again. True, then, that the things that matter to us, that we've loved all our lives--or the most significant parts of it--always come back to haunt us. Notebooks, pens that were loved and clutched and written with, coffee mugs, old shirts, books, people, years. Irrevocably lost, but whose presence we feel, even as we go on with the day-to-day, scrolling through playlists, tinkering with our messes, mending tiny holes, tearing at candy wrappers, walking home. But, books. We forget, remember, then soon wonder.                                                                                                                                                          But the sky's a golden patch right now, from my window. And I remember picturing the sun's rays slanting snugly on my shelves.

Hope

Peace comes settling, at last. Evening bears no more threats; there are less shadows when the sun rises. The doubtful mind, programmed from years of asking, still feels the questions creeping in, but the heart is just as stubborn, and, with surer eyes, follows the light as it slants, upward now. The motes of sunlight bring delight, as before they only did sadness. It is almost dawn and yet the only regret I feel is that of the clock's measured ticking--unchanging  even as everything else has moved on, even as the heart has learned that each moment is different from the one that came before, and from that which will come after. Still, the losses have been counted, and tomorrow remains, steadfast.

Moving House

Movement requires action. A verb is a tiresome word. But the mind dictates the body, and the mind is a merciless master. Often, I am drawn to ask, "what dictates the mind?" And now, I ask, "how did I get here? What miracle of will, what dust motes, which roads?"                                         And I am led downstairs, down slopes, past years and trees, and footsteps and decades, behind closed doorsm and mute walls, inside old rooms and beneath familiar ceilings, across sunsets and evenings, in front of fences, and faces, through beats and rhythms and voices, beyond tears and laughter, behind space and time, across space and time.                                                                   Tonight, I must remember to look at the clock. But first, buy the clock.                                                 This place needs a clock.