At around 6, I watched Gary Player giving tips on getting out of the bunker -
" Remember, Luck is the residue of Desire. "
I sprang from the couch!
A beautiful, moist morning of exploration and expansion - a quick purposeful shower to rinse off the death.
To walk, to breath, to feel the special worn quality of the neighboring trailors of Silvermead, faded, their relaxed stature reminiscent of the Catskills, bungalows and photo albums.
It felt splendid to delete slowly and surely the memory of yesterday's over the counter attack, when the cat's water appeared as viscous as chilled vodka, when that child ran by briefly glancing backward and I ran as if in a dream: not moving at all. To be able to try and forget the tricolored, grotesquely shapen mask to my left and awful Fagin lurking behind me. To have the peek-a-boo sunlight and shadows appearing newer than a stranger's smile rather than beautified, entertaining, titillating, frozen treat terrors. To ease up one's facial contortions, humming delightfully, to get beyond the proverbial four walls, the firewalls of a room where every assault is documented, stamped and commemorated, where the huddled masses juggle aspirins, nervous like Queeg, where Columbia and Uncle Sam sing about pain and gain, where every countenance radiates a presentimentality - awaiting the awkward bloodletting, the abductions to come; the bodies hearts each burning as the tears sizzle and jump, evaporating quicker than they can be shed, mouths chanting pharmacological mantras as models are blown up and dreams shrunk down.
To rush for the paper and have none manically, freshly seeing; to have the sweater clad dog-walking lady look at me oddly as I scribble on a lucky find. To be woken up, shaken by breezes! To have my soul ring.
I came back inside and the jazz was on quick for the fluorescent light is always waiting like a fortune cookie.