thoughts… from the porch…

thoughts… from the porch…

Photo by David Bartus on

(a stream of consciousness experiment going on four years now…)

this is, well was, the first truly day of spring, no, not the first nice day, but one that seems to announce the semi-permanent arrival, I’d love to paint you some ethereal picture of beautiful perfections, but that is not to be today turning into night, the air, is a soothing temperature though, a soft flow, however, in one direction I pick up the heavy scent of lawn chemicals like a teen with too much drakar doused on, I almost feel for the pests and grubs that must absorb that cruel gruel, I used to think a wonderous sparkling lawn was a wonderous thing, no more, I loathe such a faux carpet as more of a waste of resources these days, and a desert of imagination, not half as alluring as a mix of exotic and native plants that change like chameleons with the seasons, the pandemic must be slowing a bit, just from the sounds of the world, or the ones drowned now out, for there is a not so subtle undertow roar of cars in the distance, emanating from the local four lane road, oak tree road – as if that name imparts some gravitas of nature to course pavement and the sounds thereof, of course, there is the delightful, occasional throttle mash dash, a bugle call for ego small down our town’s little famous stretch, a couple of robins are chattering, not some euphony as you might think, the sound more like a cantankerous old married couple arguing, knowing there is no point in this dos-e-doe, knowing they have an audience’s ear for their nonsense, besides their own (and they are the only ones enjoying this show), robins are not songbirds I tell you, at least not those of this local herd, well… at least my various bamboo plants are blooming, in actuality shooting up new spikes left and right – which does not sound as nice or flowery, but a new generation looking to take a place in the some-day-ending parade, this past winter was very harsh on my crop, they look like a blonde wig that has been tossed about the mall parking lot floor for a few weeks or more, you can clearly see the glory that once was, like an outline, or a memory, but you surely would not pick it up to wear it; a commercial airliner is roaring out there somewhere, horizon-ish, hidden by the darkened clouds, not quite dark enough to see the beacons blinking indicating and exact location, a lone goose passes by, one honk, no formation to amaze by, this only confirms the underwhelming litany of this night, yet… even with all this, and that damn dog barking it’s head off some blocks away, the people walking by yapping loudly on their important calls, the last blasts of the mating calls of leaf-blowers in landscaper hands, somewhere, even in this, this imperfection, my eye is taken, to a small broken branch, barely more than a mere twig, I watch as it swings back and forth like some hypnotic pendulum, am I getting sleepy? no, just the back and forth and the back and forth, breathing in… and breathing out… and I am found, all of time, all of history, have brought me right here, the enemies of my revelation send various types of gas chariots down the street to distract me, but they only make me realize, and crack a wry smile, I found peace in place, the subtle trick, the wave, a fractured stick, sometimes… is all it takes.

notes… I wanted something dissonant… and probably something you never heard, I have eclectic tastes to be sure… but this evening felt like an immersion and birthing all in one…

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