November 04, 2006
Lunar, baby!
And so it is a game of life in the spaces between. And I have survived the weekend of waiting to this hour at least. Not having heard a wit about things. I feel odd.
Like I have a brain full of ideas ready to record and yet no access to them now because of the torpor filling my spaces in between life; it seems to take snuffing pleasure in settling on and surrounding every synapse I lay claim to have provided a path for in the confined, winding pathways of that which floats in cranial fluid beneath my noggin.
The spaces in between, when torpor settles, are hard to navigate, and torpor, though quick to disappear, like fog in the morning sun, it still hangs in the interim hours, the hours that will end up costing us the most. For instance, in the interim hours we drive to work, in the morning in the settled fog, and have not the time to sit outside the yellow line, engine idling waiting til 10:00 AM when the sun methodically burns a visibility factor through the veil. No, we drive, squinting, our nerves on high alert, the coffee well within reach, so as not to, even for one second, miss the chance of serving to the left or right of a looming Semi’s rear end. So it is when the torpor fills the spaces in between.
Oh it will lift. There is no doubt in everyone’s mind that it will lift, but by the clock struck eight we all don’t wait for the sun’s rays to alleviate at only 10:08, no. We all don’t wait.
I feel odd. As though not knowing what lies ahead need not be thought of or planned for at this stage. How does one plan a skillful avoidance of the Semi’s sudden looming rear end in fog when it has firmly settled?! Wait til 10:00? No way, just merrily drive away - not only today, but yesterday and last week Monday. This is the game of life we play even when odd feelings come our way and the moon so bright in its fullness tonight brushes away the sweat of angst, and even squeals of delight. With a single beam it razes the shimmering tide and draws in to it’s pale, lucid luminescence, the portending dwellers of Um Suquiem, the augers of Al Satwa, the blue ribbon jurists of Jumeirah and… every dweller of the spaces in between.
There we dwell. There we live. There we feel odd, brains full of ideas ready to record and yet no access to them now because of today’s torpor; and of tomorrow’s foggy quota of the same, sure to filled. Perhaps I’ll wait till 10:00 then.
Like I have a brain full of ideas ready to record and yet no access to them now because of the torpor filling my spaces in between life; it seems to take snuffing pleasure in settling on and surrounding every synapse I lay claim to have provided a path for in the confined, winding pathways of that which floats in cranial fluid beneath my noggin.
The spaces in between, when torpor settles, are hard to navigate, and torpor, though quick to disappear, like fog in the morning sun, it still hangs in the interim hours, the hours that will end up costing us the most. For instance, in the interim hours we drive to work, in the morning in the settled fog, and have not the time to sit outside the yellow line, engine idling waiting til 10:00 AM when the sun methodically burns a visibility factor through the veil. No, we drive, squinting, our nerves on high alert, the coffee well within reach, so as not to, even for one second, miss the chance of serving to the left or right of a looming Semi’s rear end. So it is when the torpor fills the spaces in between.
Oh it will lift. There is no doubt in everyone’s mind that it will lift, but by the clock struck eight we all don’t wait for the sun’s rays to alleviate at only 10:08, no. We all don’t wait.
I feel odd. As though not knowing what lies ahead need not be thought of or planned for at this stage. How does one plan a skillful avoidance of the Semi’s sudden looming rear end in fog when it has firmly settled?! Wait til 10:00? No way, just merrily drive away - not only today, but yesterday and last week Monday. This is the game of life we play even when odd feelings come our way and the moon so bright in its fullness tonight brushes away the sweat of angst, and even squeals of delight. With a single beam it razes the shimmering tide and draws in to it’s pale, lucid luminescence, the portending dwellers of Um Suquiem, the augers of Al Satwa, the blue ribbon jurists of Jumeirah and… every dweller of the spaces in between.
There we dwell. There we live. There we feel odd, brains full of ideas ready to record and yet no access to them now because of today’s torpor; and of tomorrow’s foggy quota of the same, sure to filled. Perhaps I’ll wait till 10:00 then.
