Sunday, September 27, 2015
Variation on a theme by Stevens
I am not about to get up and make coffee. Nor am I going to even get dressed. Putting on some music and returning to the comfort of the blanket is all I require. The only encroachment of dark catastrophes is the workweek and the procession of tiny thoughts aggregating to aggravating.
The crows are outside considering and trading news, but they are the only ones. The rest of the world seems as silent and lazy as myself. Others are perhaps snoring, trying to find underwear, retching or quietly addressing God. Even the music of the blue guitar was made decades ago.
I look forward to the Sunday evening. Why should it be the end of anything? Does it matter? I can only think of crows in fire maples—wings furled—waiting and dreaming the darkness upon the world, freeing Sunday night from the week that follows.
For all of that, it is difficult to find the divinity within myself. But in the naked island that is the woman on the bed, beneath the blanket, dozy, I find the solitude of moments blurring into now. I am not even sure there is an I here beyond the marker made of language. So I play with logic just a little, turn upon the bed and test the air with one bare foot.
If there is no me in isolation, then I am not alone.