I was walking past this bird in a bush on the way to my car this morning. The bird was going haywire. When I went by, it stopped. It was cold outside. It’s still raining. That bird had a secret – it had to thrash around for something, something important – but it didn’t want to tell me.
The day was buzz-buzz busy at the office. Cars went by. No-one kept dry. They tracked red mud back and forth in the bank lobby. They tracked it through my office. People having problems making ends meet, too busy for the mud on their shoes. I was on the phone. I was making calls. I was clicking waltzes and salsas on the keyboard. Rich and stressful. Then comes the client and I freeze. Smiles. I know something they don’t – a lot of somethings. Half the time, they don’t want me to tell them.
A week of birds. Bird week. Everything has wings. It can pick up and fly away. I’m waiting on a letter from the other side of the world. I’m waiting on good ideas, better sentences. I’m waiting on September because everyone is always waiting on September. I’m waiting for the weekend.
Oh, that last one’s actually here.
Novel Count: 27,617
Currently Reading: Killing Commendatore, Haruki Murakami
Support Relief for Family Suffering at the Border – RAICES DONATION CAMPAIGNFrom the land of red clay, and lottery worship
Coffee: Cafe Pajaro Extra Dark, Trader Joe’s Brand
Friday pushes hard brakes. The week smashes the median and things fly out: stress, joy, muddles, that clean feeling of starting something new. Now there’s just the curb and the smoking engine. It’s a busy road but no-one’s stopping. All the other cars have their own wrecks to meet.
I’m working tomorrow. I’m also driving home. I’m also, surely, going to be glued to the news, both at work and at home, to see the country put on it’s best dress as it swears in 30-40 more years of patriarchy. People will gnash teeth. Protesters will be arrested. By all indications, Kavanaugh still takes the post. Here’s a guy who spent his precious hours allotted to advocating for his competency and composure by mocking alcoholics and ranting about beer. If you cut the Capitol out of the image you could imagine him in a blue or red jersey, laughing at the tail-gate, waiting for the opposing team to leave the stands so he could smash a bottle in someone’s face. And yet we treat him like a victim, like someone owed the most prestigious legal position in the nation.
And of course he is owed. It’s his birthright: rich, straight, white man, the bleak dragon that devours us all.
Currently Reading: Autumn, Ali Smith; Cherry, Nico Walker
A cacophony of crows caws the tips of pines and oaks and elms across the parking lot from the playground, above the river, angry at nothing I can see. Below them, a gaggle of kids plays Candy Land.
Friday’s ending and it’s my first weekend off – scheduled, regular, official – since I was a teacher in 2014. The week was long and I haven’t been sleeping well. I tried to write a few times but didn’t have the energy. Instead, I trained in a branch office for a bank where every customer was a regular and everyone had a story. A Gulf War vet brought fried chicken from Lillington for his ‘favorite people.’ An old man deposited hundreds in retirement checks but kept out five-dollars worth of dimes to cash; my coworkers call him “Mr. Dime Man” and he gives the rolls each week to his granddaughter.
Six o’clock is coming on like a freight train and I’m thinking I’ll retire early tonight. First, I’m drinking Dos Equis and watching birds.
Currently Reading: The Pardoner’s Tale, by John Wain
“For Children: You will need to know the difference between Friday and a fried egg. It’s quite a simple difference, but an important one. Friday comes at the end of the week, whereas a fried egg comes out of a chicken.” – Douglas Adams, The Salmon of Doubt