I only need to see but routinely ignore the empty sheets of morning
in that moment, perhaps a moment, something I usually do not think about on the way out the door, or maybe try not to anymore, but did this morning, how usually, how used to, I might find you there, and stare, watch you sleep, laid out, jumbled, or curled up in bundles, my love, your night black hair, with a few grays, even back then, in our twenties, how long has this been an empty bed, nothing between the sheets when I leave, the empty sheets of morning are all that greet me, how I have grown accustomed to the notion, a place once inhabited by two, entwined devotion, now just an island, I do not recall even arriving here, just surviving here, but here I am and here I’ve been, so long now… so damn long now… is this to be my end? these empty sheets that greet me every morning since.
.shallow shampoo the simple things, right? in the shower this morning, fingers luxuriating in my now short hair, I suppose my mostly comfy suburb life never viewed a haircut as a luxury item, but I suppose it can be, at least a professional one, I was definitely a passenger on the bus toward mullet-ville during this quarantine as I could only trim my front and sides – somewhat adequately, what a difference now, I am reminded of how I used to make it a point to scrub my scalp to magically activate the nodes, to perhaps get the blood flowing or something, an anecdotal ritual to ward off baldness or summon youth or both, foolish, I know, funny how certain things ring true though and just pop into your mind instantly years later, as if you are walking through an old library and pick a random book off the shelf that happens to apply to the right now sudden situation unfold, I would not look good bald, I always have told myself that, maybe, maybe I will never know, but I am pretty confident that the whole bald thing is not for me, well, at least for now…
Photo by JESHOOTS.com on Pexels.com
.speeding and relative consequences driving to work the traffic is slowly gathering and coming back to normal, not quite there but there are definitely more travelers week by week, I notice a train crossing over the turnpike, I know, that does not sound exciting, and, well, it isn’t, but for all the times I have made this drive I can not recall ever seeing it, strange… the weather prognosticators have been wrong the past couple of days, I am aware a real storm is coming, but the little ones before the big one never arrived as prescribed by the all knowing weather gods, the sky is bright, there are clouds that look like inverted sand dunes, the type that look like they were imprinted from a chain link fence being pressed on the surface, I know it is a natural phenomena but amazing just the same, the NYC skyline looks like a cheap fake today, literally like a 2D paper cut out of what a ‘city’ should look like, of course there are recognizable forms, the empire state building, the freedom tower etc., but, maybe it is just the fact that I have driven by so many times, that I am not in awe, this sprawling metropolis at a distance, I know the streets, the smells, the sounds, the avenues, the parks, all of it, just from here it looks like a flimsy supermarket end-cap cardboard representation, flat without any juice… I suppose I am speeding, technically speaking, but sometimes doing 80 feels normal, earlier I was doing 70 but with no one around, no reference, no company, that felt like speeding, and now cruising near 85 mph I am almost day dreaming locked in a smooth straight ride, I hardly notice the Audi A8 barreling up behind me, I’m not hogging the left lane, I’m not one of ‘those’ drivers, I leave a good three cars of space in front most of the time, but the Audi just flashes on by as if I am walking, “now that is speeding” I think to myself, with a little disgust as I do recoil at those who pass through all the lanes weaving back and forth (“stay right pass left” ingrained like a tattoo in my skull), I suppose it should not matter much, but damn, I have to admit, it bothers me and I can’t bring myself to do the same even if, honestly, in the long run, it is not a big deal, funny the curbs we place on our own roads…
Photo by Viktor Mogilat on Pexels.com
.arrival the excitement, the actual palatable rise in contentment, from spotting a sparkling parking spot out in front of the office, waiting for the light left arrow green, the mantra begins in my head “c’mon man, c’mon man”, squeezing the wheel tighter just like pushing the elevator button a few more times as if it will do something to speed up the time, I turn and signal right to the curb, I look around, head on a swivel like I am stealing something, hello hand meet cookie jar, or maybe…maybe I am missing something? I double check the parking sign three times, a sign I have seen one thousand million times before, and I check it once more, I question in my mind what day this is for, maybe I should check my expectations at the door if this is what gets a rise out of me in the morning, I guess expectations are relative, and they are, first to the office this morning, no prize, no ribbon, turn off the alarms and go through that minor panic that I might forget the codes, as if the world would end or the building will explode, and the phone is ringing, it is not 8:30 am yet, don’t these fools know the rules? I feel like I am getting over on them by not answering the phone until the prescribed time, how we wrap ourselves in this world with the garb, the costumes, the hat and gloves, of momentary importance, which is surely not, just a wait station between things that actually mean something. …definitely time for coffee, splash of skim, packet of stevia, and dive right in…
“would you allow me to patronize you with lies perhaps I might even tell you some truths”
I figure, what do I have to lose, but time, always the sand but there is no real point in paying attention to that until the end, and what can I do about that anyway, so perhaps a cup of tea, although I am more of a coffee wonk these days, years, how about a cup of earl grey, for bergomot is the most forgotten citrus, maybe, perhaps I can pull on a thread and work my own knots out or fashion a garment even in the process, I certainly have to bow to her experience but then again we all bring something unique to the arbitrary table, so let’s dance…
…and the hours pass on by, fantastical and intimate stories shared, in one direction, I never bothered to check her credentials at the door, and how would I go about that anyway, the tales seem somewhat legit, but who am I to say? I keep waiting for the reveal, the fortune nestled inside the cookie egg, or maybe I am missing the point of the entire exercise anyway, she controls me with her eyes even though the words are spun from her mouth, lips, lips that move hypnotically that is, I fear I am nearing a trance, scratch that, fear has gone, faded out like a shadow on a blank chalkboard moonless night, comforting darkness though, the soft kind right before you drift off to sweet slumber wrapped in your favorite blanket, to wander another world in your own dreams, is she planting seeds in those fields? how might I know, or even be aware when a spinster of such merit and age is playing with language so easily, are these stories that were ? or are to be? for me? or for…
Photo by freestocks.org on Pexels.com
orange blossoms and jasmine, or maybe it is the tea, her tea, sipped so perfectly without a sound, I see the ripples on the surface pond, the silence is a stark contrast like standing on a sheer faced cliff high above the surf, you can see the waves crash and imagine the sound they make hitting the rocks so damn violently but somehow romantically like a kiss, she sips again, just enough time to keep me from being fully mesmerized I think, of course she has had all this time to perfect her skills, like a linguistic surgeon, no, more like a veritable verbal ballerina, like watching a master paint a landscape effortlessly from the wrists on down, as if the very hand of the universe is drawing stars in motion right before me, all afternoon and into the night, the delight of her words is intoxication, is this love? or seduction, mental seduction as she penetrates my barriers with utter ease, doors open, my mind, and I am in rapture unable to decline her masterful invitations, invasions, all the while, somewhere before, I am trying to pull the pieces together, not sure of the whole outcome, like a puzzle- I start on the edges, a cloud piece to a cloud piece above the ground, but just the sound, I come to understand the yarn and draw of the pied piper’s lore, disarming, the stories flow…
at once swept up on a mighty ocean, the slick wet deck of an aged wooden galleon, rolling up and down in a violent storm, lightning flashes the night, I can taste the salt in the air on my mind, and then transferred to a conjured green wooded field ring, mixtures of pine and honey, a fawn on a sacred stump raising sweet lullabies from pan’s own flute, for even the butterflies pause to admire and sing along, their wings beat with the song, or perhaps in a desert, feeling the sun sap skin, coming upon an old sand ruin to know it’s story again, running my fingers along the edges and seams, where the mortar had been, and the hands of lives that shaped these rocks…
this is a transcendent tempest, a dream, a fever’s cradle, she pulls all the strings with my willing submission, truly I am smitten and drawn quartered in woven worlds, a web, a spider, a morsel wrapped up like a gift, for I am hers, so I succumb, she wins.
Shades of My Garden 