Tag Archives: sunrise

Universe, Fingerpaints.

26 Wednesday Sep 2018

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I wake up at 0400, I don’t know why.

My Hoya plant climbs and changes direction all day, pushing out leaves that start out maroon then turn green, looking for something cling to, I guess, but I don’t know how. They don’t care why.

Somebody’s gorgeous, imperfect black Mercedes 350 D sits in the parking lot, and I don’t know who it belongs to. Should I do penance for coveting?

I had a dream and you were in it and I was awful to you. Should I apologize?

My son shivers under a pile of covers every few weeks and nobody knows how to fix him. When will we find the answer?

Who will tend our nerves and muscle, spine and hips, and tell them stand down, the money has come, go and get well, healthcare has come?

What does an unaching body feel like?

Where does music come from?

Why are those finger-sized fishes jumping out of the bay into the air?

Where did my pouch of flash drives go?

What will my next best writing look like, and who will tell me “Yes, we want this.”

Are you the one tapping on my window at night when it rains, sounding like somebody is dropping berries onto my windowsill from the roof in the middle of the night?

Who’s going to put all this stuff away, and wash laundry, and take the garbage out, and pay bills, and wash the car?

Does anyone else hate the fact that Greenie’s is gone and wonder what will replace that beach bar that the mayor said yeah that was nice but it’s time to move on?

How many children are still without their parents at the border and will they ever see them again?

Peace in our time?

Are aliens shunning us?

Who made the first fishing net?

I dunno.   It’s all just Universe painting, I guess.  Meanwhile….who can think with all this going on…  20180926_070410

June 30

30 Saturday Jun 2018

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The sun has been present since 4:22. The eastern sky in my bedroom window tells my restless eyes so.  I am not ready to greet this day.  My alarm clock is set for 7:00 but that’s a joke because I know I will awaken and rise long before then.

I’ve got “work” to do. Or things to “think” about. Basically it’s just being awake before I want to be awake and now I have to deal with it.

It’s too dark to write, so I turn on the lamp near my table so I can “see.” The orange courtyard lights are still on.  The western sky is black diluted, while the sky in my eastern bedroom is robin’s egg blue.  Hours pass and the sun rises over the shoulder of my apartment roof, lighting the yellow walls aflame. I will close the blinds later to keep out the blinding light and heat, the light that coaxes my plants to creep and grow.  I have visited the balcony ten times already to witness the pre-dawn grass watering, finches calling, the ocean sky lilac and calm, large black bugs zip-zagging haphazardly, crashing into everything unlike their steadfast, straightforward but seemingly lost dragonfly compatriots. Much to do today and no word when we will bury our friend the Saffron Queen.  Will he refuse to tell us?

My editor says he will take one of my things for print. That means he likes one thing more than the other, or, one was more right for the anthology than the other. I keep wishing I could write more things for the anthology but that’s just not how it works for me.  Some days a thing grabs me, takes me by the lapels and says “You write this right now,” and I obey and it works. Most days I walk past dusty footlockers and wash dishes and wait for dolphins and sleep on a sore shoulder.  My editor says he will print my thing and I should be shouting from the rooftops and doing the happy dance, but right now all I got is gratitude for being alone, for choosing silence over the crush of the world, and squeezing in a story now and then.  And missing my pain in the ass friend.

My day began at 4:22 AM. The sun is bright on the yellow wall and I have much to do today, and I will try to focus on what I can be, what I will do, and ignore all the rest.

I Double Dog Dare You To Believe

11 Wednesday Oct 2017

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They claim the sun rose this morning but I didn’t see it, so I do not believe.  I stood there beneath gray cotton candy clouds, moving fast, studying the horizon, but the orb that never fails to emerge hot from the wet horizon did not appear. Science and my phone app says the sun rose 10 minute ago, but why should I believe?

A day has passed and I write this piece in the dark because I like to write by laptop light. (Yes, go ahead, sing that song, you know the one.)  I like watching the night sky change clothes.  On clear nights the sky turns black to daylight in un-nameable shades.  I arose this morning when the sky was still black, not the deep space black of the void, but the black of a world filled with light filtered through clouds. The courtyard lights bathe the world in a pale orange glow. I chose not to engage the beach this morning because heavy clouds will keep me from seeing the orb. I will have to have faith that the sun did rise though I did not see it.

And now, the courtyard lights extinguish themselves one by one, but the sky in the west remains gray.  The cat lady wins the Oscar for best Cat Lady actress once again, ostentatiously farewelling her cat, chin up, wide smile, floating down the balcony to her car, getting ready to face another day.  I suppose that means the sun rose, but I didn’t see it.

A school bus pulls out of the lot next door, its roof strobe flashing brightly in the murk telling me it’s carrying another load of angels and demons. I suppose that means the sun rose, but I’m not sure I believe it.

Faith asks a lot of me. It walks hand in hand with science and superstition. My neighbors make their way down to the parking lot, hands filled with garbage bags and pizza boxes, remains of their week.  I know what I see, or so I believe.

September 30, Morning

30 Saturday Sep 2017

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It’s always a gift waking an hour before sunrise.  Some mornings are rote and uninteresting, while others are a conscious running away from my bed because I cannot take another minute lying there in a void or in the presence of terrible dreams.  Waking at 2 in the morning is rarely a good thing.

I pulled on my leggings made of penguin skin, or so it seems, for it can keep out the hardest wind, the coldest morning. I pulled on flannel and a hoodie and made way for damp sand and a sun I knew wouldn’t be right where I left it.

The Corgi boys were tussling, cute piles of black and blonde fur, their dad sitting still nearby.   Crone was walking her three: Great Dane and two Vizsla.  One is pregnant and tired (or stubborn) so she leaves her Crone to come sit with me and scratch her back and her butt for a little while.  I offered to hold her leash while she walks the other two, but… she’s determined to keep her three-pack walking.  Otherwise, all eyes are on the east. We are waiting.

Well, maybe not the lobster boat (near) or the small cruise ship (far), and Mister Dante who sits on the patio, pale legs propped on a chair now because his heart surgery changed everything.  Crabs cleaned their burrows, no precipitation forecast for quite a while. There are no fishermen dancing with their nets this morning.

The sun rose not in an orb, gracefully clothed in magenta.  He was orange and fiery and misshapen through the clouds like mashed potatoes squeezed through toddler fingers. Why did I feel I needed to take my sweatshirt off, hot already? A trick of the mind.

Mister Determined has his luggage packed, and he canes his way slowly down the patio. His wife (nurse?) will be far behind, carrying the rest of their bags and they won’t be back for weeks.  I wonder, where do they go?  Meanwhile, I wonder if (or when) the cat across the way will forgive his person for letting her guest dump his orange hood on his windowsill.  Oh… she’ll pay all right.

27 August Morning

27 Sunday Aug 2017

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4:30. The sun is coming. Crickets are loud. I lean on my balcony in a t-shirt, listening.

5:30. The sun is coming. Crickets are loud. My neighbor breaks open a soda can. Her cat inspects the windowsill. Time to make tracks.

5:45  The sun is present, though its magenta globe has not broken the horizon. Crickets do fade. Bladders and udders need care, reptilian sleep begins to break, active glands send erotic messages to fingertips.  The world is astir.

The wind is 12 knots. Gulls work hard to wing into northeast wind. The wind drives the sand across itself. If I turn out of the wind, my dull ears barely perceive the sound of sand upon sand and it sounds like sleet on a windshield, so very faint and magical.

Middling clouds make canvas for a star we have not seen yet to become rose, magenta, blue and slate. Some believe this is an unremarkable sunrise because we could not see the chariot’s wheel rise behind the CBBT.

No crab boats motoring. Crab two-packs are rare at the deli the year, and we have the ignorant fishers to thank, oh but plenty of shrimp.

No dolphins. Or secret dolphins. Only they know.

Mr. Corgi man hasn’t come out yet. Cell-phone sunrise takers are here, gooseflesh hinders their portraiting. Will they return tomorrow in layers?

Tiny whelk blows onto my finger. She never made it to teenager, mother, or crone. She sits in a place of honor, a shield of mother-of-pearl, stunted, benign, but not without a story.

What Do You Intend To Do?

20 Thursday Jul 2017

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I told him I was going to the Jersey shore for the weekend. I think it was a surprise, but maybe not so much.  It was my intention to receive a modest spring sunburn, to get pounded by Atlantic waves, and take some time to sort the rocks and beans and ribbons, thank you notes, condemnations, confessions, hopes, dreams, sorrows, love and confusion that occupied my mind. It was my intention to get up before sunrise, run across the road, sit on a blanket and watch the sun come up. I lost my phone, I dreamed a dreadful dream, I awoke well before dawn and ran across the road terrified that I’d missed the moment. I sat on the sand in full dark watching layers of light build, relieved, so relieved I hadn’t missed the moment. Stars were still present. My mind was preoccupied with the loss of my phone and memories I had no way to shake. Layers of light built out there on the edge of water sky as I intentionally watched the sun rise and used my kindle to record the moments.

Living intentionally means I have a vision for what I want my life to look like, I have reminders that trail me in blogs, on scraps of paper, on the black board hanging on my frigerator. Living intentionally means I choose to get up early and watch the sun come up, or I prepare for meeting with the Sundowners so we can say goodbye to the day. Living intentionally means I think of what I want to eat and drink and wear and prepare for the day, best I can.  Living intentionally means I listen more than I speak. That I choose to say “yes” or “no” and not feel guilty either way.  It means I understand what healthy human rhythms look and feel like, and I choose healthy… or not.

Living intentionally means I am not a pinball. I don’t wake up when your flipper knocks me out of bed. I’m not your silver ball driven by flippers, springs, gravity, and luck (yeah, good luck wit dat) ringing up points that are exciting but cannot move my feet across the ground avoiding life’s unseen mines.  It means I cook a healthy breakfast instead of buying it at the drive-thru, I rent movies at the library instead of signing up for Amazon prime, I buy foods that will feed my body for the week and foods that will also satisfy cravings, because what is life if we only drink water and eat tree bark?  I intend to enjoy my food.  It means I am taking small steps to live the life I want and need to live, no matter what’s going on around me.

Intention means I’m not living at the whims of life, reacting or responding well or haphazardly. No matter what life I choose to life, the sun will rise in the east and set in the west, the moon will glare in my window so bright, so intrusive in winter, far fainter in summer.  I will hunger and thirst and struggle, and I carry it all with me to bedroom and bathroom and wee living room. Intention means I will write, edit, and send my work out every day because it’s all I’ve ever wanted, all the while fighting my greatest foes. Intention is valiant, sturdy, knowledgeable, while living day to day feels like being a pinball.

Any honest, reasonable person knows it’s hard to choose getting up in the dark to see a sunrise when in a couple of hours we have to shower, get dressed, feed the kids, drive to work, work, work, come home, endure the fallout of the day and hope there will be peace in the bed we sleep upon.  Happy are those who can sort their intentions and move on them as best they can.

May 22

22 Monday May 2017

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Yesterday’s morning bed looked a hot mess, all but the mattress pulled down onto the floor. Could’ve been hot sex or could’ve been another sleepless night, too hot in a t-shirt and a stuffy room.  I’ll leave it to you to decide which one was more likely.

This morning’s bed I left early, 4:30, awakened by voices outside, young men either headed to the gym or early call to work.   I knew there was no going back to any kind of rest or sleep, so I pulled on yesterday’s clothes and ventured outside.  The finches are strenuous early, morning doves and gulls silent. It’s a farther walk to where I can hear the water but it never quite drowns out the sound of birds singing in the dark.

I sat in the damp sand, water black but for little white wave crests that break just before the shore, that moment when they’re good and ready.  Sunrise in 48 minutes. I doubt I will be able to sit still that long.  A small container ship creeps across the bay, barely silhouetted by the town lights. Hampton bridge is busy, as always. I will not see the lights go out this morning.  Town lights behind me make the night sky glow pink and blue in the clouds.

Two buoys appear in the bay, inky things in the dark, but they are orange in daylight. My eyes say they weren’t there a minute ago, but of course they were.  When will the dolphins return?  I can see bird silhouettes flying now.  They weren’t there a minute ago, but of course they were.  Sunrise in 20 minutes.  I doubt I will be able to sit still that long.

Mostly I just breathe. I focus on the scent that arrives in me. There is a faint chemical smell in the air with a tint of the seaweed clumps that arrived during those hours I could not sleep.   I smooth the sand down that lies before my crossed knees but no words come. It’s just damp, cool sand with a side order of things I should not be thinking.  But why shouldn’t I? What better place to let the words come and then go in a place where there are no dogs yipping, the rain has not yet begun to fall?

I leave before the sun rises in a sky ready for rain. I need no proof the hours moved by seeing a glowing orb.  I take with me a different kind of beauty, when the eyes adjust to dim light and can see what wasn’t there but a moment ago.

 

I Belong To Me (While Spite Laughs in the Background)

16 Tuesday May 2017

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I pledge allegiance to

Not You.

I will not kneel.  I will not bow. Kiss the tip of your sword, your robe, or your ring and swear fealty.

Imagine the day that I did not murder my neighbor, refused to sacrifice her exalted body on the altar to feed the god with her hot, muscular heart… but the sun rose still, my hands clean.  Again. And again.

Imagine the day that I did not offer the best of my wheat, meat, and wine to the god in his tent so he would overlook my sins because my children were hungry and needed every piece of that lamb to survive the winter? The sin is to let my children starve, buddy.

Imagine the day that I took my worship away from you. I suppose I should confess it was because you are no longer the salt of my pleasure but salt in the wound. It burned, then cleansed, and helped me see that our gods dissolve and cloud the water.  I cannot drink that water for it would kill me. I still need you, but I no longer worship you.

And the sun rose still.  Again. And again.

Morning Musings

19 Wednesday Apr 2017

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I hadn’t planned on waking with a jolt, but it happens sometimes. I open my eyes to a bright flash, like lightning, but there is no storm here.  Sunrise soon, so I slip into slouchy clothes, add another jacket because the winds are northeast, and you know what that means.  The dog walkers were out trying to be quiet, but their fluffies have one job and they are going to do that job every morning: yip at anything that moves, and that’s okay. By now most of them know I’m not bite-worthy, so they let me scritch their wiry necks and set them on their way.

I stand in the sand with camera phone in hand waiting for the molten orb to rise from the Atlantic, noting the ceiling covered by rows of narrow clouds, adjoined, pink, soon to be yellow then white when the whole thing is done.  I watch the fluffies trot across wind-blown dunes. I see early crab tracks and wonder if they’re sorry they got up too soon.  In the west, a pillar of rainbow over the Hampton bridge.

The laughing gulls were quiet for most of the year, but now that the “skimmer” gulls have arrived, the laughing gulls call constantly. Laughing gulls are more likely to share the breakwaters with the fuller-bodied gulls or tiny plovers who are no threat to anyone.   The skimmers fly by in the mornings but do most of their work of feeding in the evenings, skimming the tideline open-mouthed and faster than a white feathered bullet. Their morning calls are demure compared to the coarse laughing gulls, their bodies are the epitome of sleek, narrow, curved, pale, and far more seasonal. They are white silk arrows flown from heaven, and that seems to piss off the laughing gulls.

There is a tiny bird perched on the dead tree limb outside my window, breast curved and deep. He silently pivots like an unsure weather vane. What is he looking for?

My neighbor says goodbye to her cat on the windowsill every morning; she doesn’t know I see this, and she greets him when she returns before she opens the door.  I met her across the balcony this morning. I said hello, and she “confessed” her ritual. I think she felt like she was caught like a deer in the headlights.  We haven’t spoken but a few words.  I told her, “You should see him when you’re not home. All the parties. Had to call the cops a few times.” one-two-three…. She had no idea what I was talking about, but eventually she smiled and said, “You’re funny, ” and I wished her a great day as she smiled and made her way down the stairs.

Mad Libs was a fun game, and sometimes Jimmy Fallon, the late show host, fills out a Mad Libs form and acts out a scene based on the guests’ words.  I’ve watched Jimmy coax a great many words from his guests, and most of them disappoint me. They’re like me, trying to remember what’s a noun, verb, adjective. Most guest replies are often bland like a primary color wheel, and it informs me more deeply than a silly interview.  This morning I am pleased with Kevin Spacey who, unsurprisingly, immediately, chose wonderful and interesting words.  This matters to me, not so much because I want to win a date with Kevin Spacey, but more because it reaffirms my need for more, my need to be in the company of people who are curious about the world, who know things that I do not. Those who touch the mermaid of me.

April 17

17 Monday Apr 2017

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What a difference “__” makes.  That variable is subject to debate for me. It could be time, unplugging, sunlight, warmer weather, winds shifting from north to southwest, mending fences with a neighbor, the departure of the bad energy downstairs.  Or it could be the determination, the want/need/fight, the will to sleep through the night and arise at peace with the world. All of the above.

I am better today than I have been in some time and am relieved.  There is still much work to be done, but at least I feel ready to begin (begin again) and again.  I forgot my blessings and address them again today in a rising sun that reflects the blinding yellow paint on the building next door.

I slept with a full belly. I slept with the windows open. I slept with hope for tomorrow.  I slept. And now, it’s time to write.