Tuesday, July 12, 2011

under summer moon

walking home from church in the twilight, the vacant lot glittering with lightning bugs, scents of lavender and wisps of citronella, leftover firework crackle, everyone on their front porches, finding that I'm picking up Spanish by osmosis. All ennui from the day, the tiredness and seemingly unshakeable somnambulism where I don't feel like I'm much fun dissolving momentarily in a place of community, wishing that the night could last a little longer.

I sat on my porch for awhile, hovering between adoration of Creator and the constant stream of questions and ventings, still sometimes wishing that I shared my space again because as much as I love the quiet and the peace that at this time last year didn't exist, and I know part of this is the rhythms and cycles completing and beginning again, that I'm not myself in times like these.

But I miss staying up late, driving through empty streets plumbing the depths of the profound and ridiculous, night walks to the lake to lay on the rocks and listen to the waves, because it's hard to do those last couple things alone and so I move upstairs to my balcony in wonder and solitude, trying to soak in the summer nights, angst out to Mark Sandman's croon and try to appreciate the beauty and not angst so damn much as the moon ascends through gauzy clouds, radiating a golden halo, bicyclists whisper past, and everything around me is finally blooming.

4 comments:

Randal Graves said...

Relax your angst. You're not that much fun. (Oh, I kid, of course).

Can't help you with the staying up late, though.

Word verification: avatste, vaguely dread piratical buccaneerism.

Anonymous said...

you should include a playlist in your novel, maybe a song suggestion in place of a quote to start chapters, speaking of which when do we get a taste?

Anonymous said...

http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2011/07/make-your-kid-a-writer/241870/

thatgirl said...

Avast, peonage!
eh, I got some poemetry (unfinished) out of the existentialism so all was not lost.

dmf,
definitely thinking along the lines of soundtracks, snatches of song lyrics and headlines like Dos Passos.

Saw that! I was totally that kid without my parents trying. And I don't totally suck at writing anymore, though my teenage journalling was horrific and cringeworthy. Out of all the things in the world, why I did I write those things down?