a conjuration- I am- suddenly found ‘midst an unusual sun shower a downpour of cherry blossom petals a shame, for they will never feel the real kiss of the true summer sun so I must for them
notes… this is what haiku is to me, not the form, the beauty. I was going to my car after work in the blah industrial section of Hackensack , NJ where I work, there are cherry blossoms lining the side street, warehouses line both sides, but yet… cherry blossoms are the there, in line, that attract the wild birds of the area, such as they are, we even get quaker parrots from time to time, so, there I was, in the middle of a storm, of petals… and I took a moment to inhale and observe, beauty is there in daily things.. just take a second and look for it…
wow…this has been awhile, seems like years since I had the simple pleasure of just sitting out here on my porch, listening to the world’s stories, observing them play out in motion, just letting my brain untangle and stretch out after these months of confinement that define the winter’s constriction, I concentrate on my breathing, a rhythm, a meaning, imagining I could slow my heart down and time itself in the process, so I might sample this, this moment, this all looks like silence, or would should be silence, but no, anything but, while in summer there is the constant harangue of nature, the buzzing of insects, crickets, birds chattering at late hours, ‘munks and squirrels pattering about, no, this is a wonderfully insect free time, and the animals seem subdued by their winter schedule, not yet born free into the renewal of spring, so you would think this would be a quiet time, no, not tonight, tonight is burdened with the soundof humanity, sure, not big city cacophony, but enough to disturb the peace, wind and me, just when I think there will be a break there is one, of the wrong variety, from cars shuttling home, to others seemingly racing to the moon, then, an almost horse hoof click clock sound, in this neighborhood ? Can’t be, but as my ears deceive I might imagine somehow an amish person is quite lost, at least they would be on the right coast, just a state over from lancaster proper, but no, the sound (as I found) was that of a kid on rollerblades, struggling to grind up the hill, it makes sense that there would be a rhythmic gate but I was amazed at how close a resemblance the click and spin of this human mechanism had to the trot of a horse on pavement, which I do hear once a year, down in cape may, and occasionally if I am in the city, so, at least for a moment I was distracted by other sounds, other than humanity, there is probably a lesson in there somewhere… but for now, I am just enjoying being outside without having to hurry inside, how 60 degrees seems like the tropics when just a few days ago there was ice and snow, so I know, to savor the moment, until just enough cold reminds me, a clock jumps back, the sun lingers, soon spring will burst forth and I will forget the dire season.
notes… for the unfamiliar (and judging by numbers that is at least a few million people…) this is a stream of consciousness experiment where I literally sit my ass down on the porch and write whatever comes to mind, sometimes it is profound, sometimes amusing, sometimes maybe not so much… but it is raw and whatever the world reports to me as a conduit…
demeanor how it all can turn on a dime, either way I suppose, for once I actually dragged one my laptops out here, usually I am scribbling in one of my journals like a manic chipmunk on speed, which is nice but if you have seen my handwriting transcribing those notes is not what most would term a good time, immediately I am distracted by my background in my foreground, maybe bringing a modern device into this is a distraction I did not count on, I suppose I might, but for some reason I feel the urgent thundering impulse to empty my recycle bin, why? no logic, call it a clean slate for my mind… so yes, my little corner of the world is not so impressive (pictured above), it’s not awful by any means, there is plenty of nature to comfort, more than you might think for an outlier of new york city, a well developed and trafficked area, consumed by human activity except for the ‘green areas’ so designated as parks and the like, but you have to take what you can to unwind from the pace, literally think about giving your mind some space, get lost in the little jigs various birds make as they go about their goings, wafts of barbecue fill the near night air, now I know that must seem as blasphemy to some, I am quite aware, here, in these northern exposures, the q is more a general catch all term for grilling, not the art form ritual performed in other states, however, the smell is the smell is the smell, and it is one of those things that rings of spring, and even more so summers, all I need to hear is the ice cream truck and I am delivered, but that is a ways off, and far between anyway these days, those trucks were almost mythical, peter piper had nothing on a truck that could draw forth hordes of children like sirens to the rocks, gladly flailing ourselves down the street in pursuit, the mad hatter dash, push pops, bomb pops, or a nutty buddy, like frozen christmas stocking stuffers delivered in the middle of the staunchest heat, on the hottest days of course you had to employ strategy, from what your ordered to how you attacked said treat with you mouth, always on the borderline of brain freeze, and often over, but better that fate than dripping down your arms… there is the value in just sitting still for a moment, letting thoughts just flow through, I was transported there, I could practically feel myself in pursuit of the ice cream truck and that magical jingle, and suddenly the day has washed off my back, until that bracing alarm in really mere hours for now, the unfulfilling temptation of the snooze bar, like a morning moment opiate, and the whole cycle starts again, but here in my little corner, I can listen, neighbors making small talk about lawns and the coming invasion, the ever distant tatters of light shading different hues to the cloud bellies, the bird chatter seems to be spiraling down by the minute, almost a contest to see who gets in the last word chirp as a matter of pride, I wonder if they know I am listening.
Shades of My Garden 