‘the lone dandelion’ as I look all about my yard, thinking of something clever to say, or some universal truth to transmit, I have to remind myself, the whole purpose of sitting out here, is, none of these things, to let the world flow, and go from there, I suppose that is my humanity tugging at my strings, sometimes I feel like I could pen a novel in an afternoon, or other times I struggle to write a simple line, maybe this is one of those times, so I pay more attention to the dog, perhaps as slavish as I to routine, yet I know her senses are much keener than mine, or at least more overt, maybe mine are buried by human arrogance, I look at all the leaves scattered on the lawn, a chill I know but since left long ago has snuck back into this room, alas, where did the summer go? I suppose that sentiment loses some significance as we get older and are saddled with work, the days of youth – the summer was this singular freedom, long days, beach days, peeling skin, neon colored buckets, hiking in the catskills, scraped knees, everything seemed possible, now, just the nicer drive to work, waking up with sunlight and coming home with same, a delight on it’s own, and it is coming to a close, as everything does, I suppose, I look off to one of my bamboo bushes, and oddly, totally out of season, there is a single dandelion, no, not even in the flower phase, in the hair is white spread the seeds phase, how odd, and how quite late, I want to tell the little guy he is a bit out of sorts, but why cut short the singular joy this little weed might be channeling, a single dandelion spreading it’s wings, futile, I know, but the singular notion of it is in a way inspiring, a singular bloom out of season, but a bloom just the same, for a second, there is spring even in the face of the fading shadow of summer.
(part of my ongoing series, oddly called The Porch Project, ok, maybe not so oddly)
labor day, the traditional death of summer, everyone rushes in like an orgy of decadence to have the last hurrah, the last dance, on the last day, school begins next week, so seemingly the season of play is gasping for breath, the last stand of the ph warriors who battled chemical balance in their pools all summer long, for this payoff, as the door is closing, I know, in my mind, or in my rational side, that time has a singular pace but I will still swear on my grave there are times when time speeds up or down, always the contrast of what we feel is true up against what we ‘know’ as truth, there are already early casualties of the seasonal war, leaves already yellowed, scattered about my lawn, how quickly the summer is gone, like the rest of everything else around me I will cling to every bit of the warm sun, and absorb every last of molecule of heat, from which I can…
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this is not a quiet night, in fact my immediate neighbors, to my right, are throwing quite the party, like they should need a permit loud party, the street is lined with parked cars I do not recognize, my neighbors have white balloons tied to their mailbox, to mark the spot even though everyone has GPS today, on their phones, or otherwise devices, I think to myself, such is the cycle, the cycle of life, a celebration of life just next door, and yet literally three houses down they continue in mourning of passing, and me here, dwelling, veritably in the middle of both, I suppose that is a midlife crisis? being between birth and death equally, seeing so clearly both wherever I may roam? I do not know… and I suppose no one does.
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I am not certain what type of party this is, somewhat formal, guests dressed in sunday best as far as I can tell, bottles of wine and platters of food in tow, they have a live band, so I imagine it is an occasion of some importance, the band seems to be playing the standards, I am guessing, it is all in vietnamese, but I thought I heard a rendition of “daddy’s little girl” in there, maybe it’s a wedding, white balloons and all… there is a little cadre of the neighbor’s friends or relatives on the front porch, away from the party, grabbing a smoke, some drinks, probably talking shit about the ones in the main gathering out back, I know this group well, I’m usually one of those self righteous rebellious comrades, too cool for the main room, or backyard, in this instance, but I must realize and admit, it is my own inadequacies and lack of comfortable self that makes me break off, as I do, into the smaller group, where I can exert more control, avoid my own failures and flaws instead of accepting them whole cloth, and wearing them proudly back into the fold, proclaiming me, but maybe sometimes I also think, I do not truly belong, both truths can be true, a married couple of ineptitude in my soul…
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as more guest arrive, their long shadows almost stretch and touch me from the sidewalk, these last lights of the day, bending into a celebration, I notice myself in the moment, I am uplifted, I do not know any of the words to any of these songs, not even the language, but somehow, there is translation in the sentiment, perhaps this is latent memory taking the wheel, I have been to many affairs and parties over the years, just not my own, so maybe this is why I know the feelings so well, I guess that is why I feel so relaxed and comfortable now, sitting here alone, on my porch, enjoying a celebration of life, quite outside my own, knowing this is all life, the cycle of loved ones and dear friends, come and gone, celebrations, gatherings, moments, come and gone, these we hold on to, we need to hold on to, each other while we are still here because even within my block, all the reminders of life’s start and end, stay very near.
Notes… this is endemic of my Porch series, I was out there tonight, observing, and writing, and enjoying the world…
the script is flip’t, the tide has turned, cliches rue the day as the day is long, or actually not, anymore, the summer is losing some heat, quite literally, this was the first night that the driveway was actually cool on my bare feet, that magic number, like when the thermometer is clawing out of the doldrums of winter, that sweet seventy degrees mark, has been met, tonight, and now after not seeing that number for a spell, it has returned as if to say “so, you had your fun, time to get back to things”, everything in the world seems just a bit cooled off, the sun was not as punishing, and did not deliver as much heat to disperse after dark, no more lingering simmering in the dark hours, everything has a mild comfortable chill to it, right in the bulls-eye of comfortable, like all things inevitable and subject to the yoke of time, the season marches on hardly looking for my approval or nod, even the bugs seem to be taking it easy tonight, I can sit outside and wiggle my toes in all delight without the constant swat of my horse tail hands chasing mosquitoes about, maybe they are tired of the game as well, resting somewhere to enjoy the night, even the usual summer din is dialed back… just a touch, does heat magnify sound or just a biological hitch, I suppose, but either way I am swept away into this lull, nothing changed in my life today, no circumstance worsened or lightened, but yet somehow life seems a bit lighter this night, I can close my eyes, take a more abnormally deep breath than I might, to capture as much of this moment internally I think, as I breathe it all in, capture it, harness it, even in just the moments, pen it into memory, store it away for that proverbial rainy day or better yet on one of those brutally cold january nights when I need a fire from an internal source… to remind of this day, to remember late august, the calm, the just warm… enough, that line of seventy degrees, a breeze flowing about the trees in good nature, the last of a day’s light transitioning into a pillow to lay down, on a cloud, now illuminated by moonlight, and let the gentle wind wash, bend, send, blend you unto the night, into the night, into the sleep of content dreams…
(an ongoing series, kind of like a picture a week but of my thoughts when I step outside and take the world in, stream of my consciousness I suppose, so I invite you to check it out)
Taking out the garbage, a sunday ritual with no holiday pending extending the weekend, a ritual, a comfort just as much as ordering out from the local, quite average, chinese restaurant, well, it is local, this day (well early night to be exact) does not seem to know what to make of itself, a cool breeze but not a cold one, no ice in sight to pronounce the season, i’m in no rush to rush back indoors, I stop to pause, to observe the world in it’s natural orderly.
I can almost taste the faint of hope in the air, or maybe it is just the slight relent of the choke-hold of cold that has settled into common trend these past months, the tides of spring are surely rising, somewhere out there, past the horizon, but yet, I am quite sure winter has not shed all of her teeth.
there is a great deal more sound out on the town tonight, to my left the semi-distant whizzing din of a busy road, up and to the left the low rumble roar of a jumbo-liner on to a destination, more immediately left (two houses down across the street) children squabbling getting into the car after a night at their grandparent’s house, “stop it L-a-c-e-y!!” pierces the block, me, dumping my recyclables into the recycle bin with a clangy avalanche of metal and glass, my neighbor’s dog Cookie barking at every little thing (I wonder how old she is now?), such a contemplative difference a little slice of time makes, we might just get of this thing alive, I think…
and I would be remiss if I did not say thanks to anyone who reads this, I appreciate all comments and thoughts, I can only process my own after all, how it affects others is a different animal, that I would like to wrestle some understanding from. (oh, and that last line is a doors thing, I am not going to link to it, to easy)
remnants of the first snow
still upon the ground
half moon surrounded by moonlit shroud
the land’s last hope of holding onto the sun’s kind warmth
departs- with a sigh
now we must submit holding on
wrap a blanket, hold you close
stoke a fire, to crackle and roast
embers rise up the flue
or dance and curl
as the embers bloom, and decay
falling apart as the night longs on
holding their energy for as far as long
the tv flickering six feet past. eyes close.
now will be the mornings of frozen lawns
frost to cover grass and glass of cars
but for now
curled up to sleep
awaiting, counting, sleeping dreaming
to survive the season, the silent schemes of the longer shadows
as one day this will no longer be a metaphor
as one day will come and close the door.
Shades of My Garden 