Back Home Again
This John Denver song comes back around
Like a semi around a cloverleaf intersection
This morning, as though circling slowly the potential lives
My father might have imagined for me,
None of which I am living—
He was thinking professional:
Me power-breakfasting with suits,
The peculiar brightness of our faces
Under 7 A.M. fluorescence.
He was thinking international:
Me flipping decisively through a briefcase
At an airport in Geneva, laughing
Self-consciously at my rusty French.
Perhaps he made the occasional compromise
Toward reality by thinking academic:
He taps down an arched, echoing hallway
With a conspicuously buffed floor
To the heavy door of my office,
Where I’m typing on a Corona,
Half-glasses severely bisecting my gaze,
Not pausing to look up from my essay
On thirteenth-century Chinese pictograms.
Surely he was not thinking of me
Wearing his old Jerry Jeff Walker shirt,
Blasting ghetto anthems
During yoga practice
In a house with no furniture.
A few more days
A final Hi meeting
The local neighborhood bar has a quiet time between six and nine. It is a place that specializes in coffee, beer and seasonal menus. There is just enough of each for a satisfying snack and effective buzz. After the time when the laptop lids close and before the social gatherings start -- there is a sort of twilight*. Often this time is a fugitive ground rife with creative inspiration and meditative work -- of the kind that results in personal reward.*twilight may refer to civil, nautical or astronomical variety depending on your social or terrestrial condition
A man positions his mouse on the edge of his browser window. He clicks, holds and drags the viewport first left then right. The content of a video game promo micro site responds and adapts to the available space. To the man, this is more delightful than the game itself.
A man laboriously moves his piano down three levels onto the subway platform. Classic vocals and strided chords -- he played so well I swore he was blind. Oblivious to the heat on that August stage, he was most in touch with his audience -- whom he elevated with his music.
A woman should do exactly as she pleases no matter what a man may think.
As the Dalai Lama once said, "It is a time when there is much in the window, but nothing in the room."
"No one understands me," she said. Her grandmother was silent for a minute. It seemed she was searching for an answer in the star speckled sky. "But no one understands anyone in this world, darling. We are all unique. It is what gives us a sense of wonder."