Of Absence

Nothing is different beyond the window save the absence of sunlight, and the accompanying cool that goes with that territory. Our behavior has shifted, yes--the sound of cars comes less often. Thinking about how many billions of repetitions of this coming and going of light.

No, that wasn't a grammatically correct sentence.

The walls of the house create the illusion of so much more separation and safety than they truly provide. At this moment there are things, mammalian predators, snakes, lightning bolts, that could be my accidental end and they are on the same playing field, just separated by miles, or cages, or aquarium tanks. A cough in someone's chest in Botswana.

Is that even a country anymore?

But enough of this dire rumination. The fact is I am in a place of relative safety. All things considered, there's no finer place on earth. And the night is quiet--I haven't even got any music playing. Ten years ago I'd have popped on the radio immediately. Which sounds like a very good idea.

"Hotel California", 1976. The Eagles. This could be Heaven, or this could be Hell.

I've been reminiscing this evening. Googling the names of ghosts, happening upon an old blog, remembering, remembering. We haven't had that spirit here since 1969. I haven't embarked on a serious work of fiction in a long time. Something completely dark and indulgent, vampires and sex and obscene language. Twisted ideas and whorled morals. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. Ain't that the truth?

Well, I for one hope it is.

Got big plans on haunting Rush Road someday, freaking out teenagers, drunken farmer's daughters, making the eyes of raccoons glow. Being confused with the moonlit mist, being mistaken for a rustle in the wet corn leaves. The music never receding like it does in the studio, but simply continuing on, forever, like that mythical cut of "Hey Jude" that never, ever ends.

I'm drifting a bit, under no influence whatsoever, except the release of pressure--the decompression of a boy shoved into a man-suit shoved into the presence of the Vice President of Finance who, to say true, is really a pretty cool guy... but that's a bit more of "the life" than I ever want to pack on my back.

Still, those rumored days of "things getting better" have not yet come to pass as prophesied, and so I've continued to work the extra hours and buy the extra time and deal (poorly) with the extra stress, all the time aching to unload the whole persona, the whole bloody routine, and return to the things I love like a freaking swallow to Capistrano on speed.

And on that note, the room is quiet. The lacy edge of sunlight racing over the planet towards me is a few hours closer than it was before. Had I a letter, I would seal it. Had I an auditorium, I'd douse the house lights. All I have is myself, and down come the eyelids, on cue.

Buenos noches.