Twenty-Seven

At night I listen to the howling winds while refreshing the weather forecast for the morning. Some days, I don't want to be spoiled for what the dawn will bring me, but often I feel the need to be prepared.

My new rule is that days which I fail to arrive on time are not allowed to be erased from my calendar; the little numbers written on a corner of my whiteboard must remain, more or less indefinitely, as a haunting reminder of my bad morning habits. Somehow, there is no negative reinforcement strong enough to motivate me to arrive at the time I plan when I have no actual obligations beyond keeping my word to myself.

The snores of the downstairs neighborhood reverberate impressively into my room; once, he knocked on my door at 11:30 because the basement laundry machine I started had woken him up.

The world is a layer of slush ponding rainwater and snowmelt, and I manipulate the flow of traffic around me to minimize the amount of splashback I get from cars that pass inappropriately. Subtle shifts in lane position and velocity, and a well-timed peek over my shoulder keeps the cars in their place, and I am the shepherd dog racing through stampeding sheep.

Today is a good day to be. Today is a good day to look up and see the occasional patch of blue, to get coated from the waist down with salt and sand. Today is good.

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18 February 2014 11:56

Hivemind

The smell of sulfur hits my nose as soon as I step outside, and at first I mistake the fog for my eyes clouding up from the sold. There's a filmy haze in the air, and a strange quiet despite the hour of traffic.

Uninterrupted Monday mornings give me a time to catch up on all the tasks I like to perform when no one is looking. I refresh signs and clear walls and shuffle objects around to improve my ability to reach things later. The speakers mounted to the underside of my desk play WYEP, as the weekday morning DJs know exactly what song to play in order to make the most of the weather and the season; what's eerie is when the music matches my mood, and I imagine a collective mindset for all listeners, a shared feeling across the world amongst strangers I might never meet.

We all look up and see the same sky; the same sun lights up our world.

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17 February 2014 11:09

Tread Carefully, Again

"Excuse me, did you see me here?" I asked after pounding on the driver's window.

The driver was a man in his 30s, wearing glasses and a big hat, and there were young children in his car. The small sedan had backed out of the driveway at me, where I was waiting for the light to turn to my favor. I heard the sound of gears grinding into place and looked over my shoulder just in time to see the trunk-mounted bike rack, metal prongs sticking out of the little car, rushing towards me. My feet had enough traction in the slush for me to scramble backwards while the car swung around past me.

I only needed to lean forward slightly to reach the window as the he changed gears into forward drive. He looked up at me with an expression of horror that he somehow completely missed seeing a figure in a bright chartreuse jacket and orange ski goggles under broad daylight when it was no longer snowing. All I heard was my own panting breath and his idle engine when he quickly shook his head and slammed on the accelerator to get away from me.

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16 February 2014 17:35

Nesting Day

It is maddening that the very act of sweeping sends feathers and dust airborne, no matter how gently I move the broom. I make a second and third pass to collect the stragglers. As much as I adore the winter, I look forward to the day we pull the plastic sheeting from the windows so we can mop the floors again.

The English ivy didn't survive sharing an overcrowded pot with two geraniums. I denuded the dried stems of its leaves, hoping it might be encouraged to try again, but I'm not holding my breath. The irony is that I greatly dislike geraniums and I keep tending that pot out of a stubborn refusal to neglect any plant in my care.

I've argued with people who tell me that eating animals is cruel, because I can't believe that plants do not experience suffering when cultivated en masse in order to feed cities full of hungry humans. Pity the grass that cannot run away when it is grazed; pity the deer that cannot escape the jaws of a wolf; pity the wolf that is shot from a helicopter; pity the man who does not understand.

The sky turns rapidly between blue and falling snow. I don't worry about leaving eggs on the counter because the refrigerator is not much colder than the kitchen.

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15 February 2014 13:04

Era Vulgaris Noon

My collective tardiness for the week exceeds four hours, and there's still not enough motivation to get moving in the mornings. I cannot tolerate feeling rushed in the mornings. I cheat this by starting my mornings before I go to bed, and make the act of waking and sliding into my clothes, my breakfast, my bicycle, as part of a continuous flow.

Fridays always feel as if they aren't happening. I push forward through a headwind that persists regardless of which direction the road is pointing. "Do you need help?" she asks when I approach the door, when I'm untangling my hair from my face.

"Nah, I've got it," I claim, but she's held the door for me anyway. "Thanks a lot!"

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14 February 2014 15:00