(Perforated Lines -- you can't resist 'em)

(drifting off)

(yesterday)Sunday, September 24, 2000(tomorrow)

 

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.

 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Would you like to join my nice notify list? (There's something in it for you.)

Is more research needed?

 (research engine)

email Street Mail Shadow Lawn Press archives

yesterday Septembertomorrow

(left ink)all verbiage © Nancy Hayfield Birnes (right ink)