Sunday,
September 24, 2000
11:09 p.m. Those soft summer niii-ights are fading now,
fading into memory. It was only a week or two ago that we
were downtown, listening to cool jazz on a warm night, and
now? Now we're at the market, moving rapidly past aisles of
brown caramel candy apples and orange jack o' lantern
holders for Halloween loot, pushing the cart before the
darkness looms.
The seasons turn and dance away, leaving the more
reluctant wallflowers among us wilting.
But, it will be summer again before you know it and all
the worries of this present moment -- money, work, health --
will either be laughable or they will be forgotten and over
with the next time we're all feeling balmy again. That's the
one thing that's great about looking back --
perspective.
Last year at this time I thought I was truly doomed. I
was really, really sick from inhaling paint fumes in a
closed-in room. The sun had been baking the window box where
I was working and I kept on layering thin coat over thin
coat onto the dry, hungry wood. By the time I climbed down
the ladder, I was shaky and poisoned and I was really
scared.
(To be continued.)
1:50 a.m. A pause for some sleep. Be back in a flash.
11:32 a.m. Full disclosure: although only a sleep
interval has intervened, it is, indeed the next day. This
little nip and tuck to the bottom of my entry is merely an
emergency procedure, so's to keep the valuable contents from
spilling out all over the place.
See? Rationalization. Some nights I can start late and
write something coherent; some nights I think I can, but the
truth gets in the way. Last night was a primo example of
trying to dance around a few facts that are better left to
the imagination. And now, in the fabulous light of morning,
I am once again Martha Graham in a Lycra dashiki, so we may
proceed.
Ahem. I was sick last year, but not too sick. I tend to
over-worry each ache and each symptom, exquisitely aware
that my days on this globe are not guaranteed. For a few
dark days last year I thought my number was being punched,
my dance card was being revoked; you know what I mean.
Then, there was the very moving time in temple during the
Jewish New Year, when the big golden Book of Life is opened
for a brief minute so that your name can be noted, and then
closed again for the year. (I believe I have my metaphors
straight here. You have the report from a Catholic listening
in to the prayers, filtering and trying to understand.)
Nonetheless, I wondered if I were destined to be back in
the temple the following year, once again trying to worm my
way into the ponderous Book of Life, You are supposed to
wonder, I believe. You are supposed to live in wonder,
actually.
And here is my point, which I could not frame out
properly last night: The year is a good telescope. Looked at
one way, aiming your lens at the future, you can see your
small star-like self, as if the light is actually there, but
hasn't reached your consciousness yet. You know yourself, if
you're honest with yourself. That little "you" in the
future? Coping with past indignities and laughing at past
worries.
There. That's what I was trying to say last night. But I
was so tired, all I could do was look up at the dark sky and
the distant stars and say, "Ooooooh. Twinkly."
The morning truly is mother to the mind.
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