The gray of the day feels like a texture.
The day seems laden with stories. Everywhere you look, the houses, the duplex apartments, the empty storefronts–all are draped in the gray blanket of the day and you
can sense, just beneath the surface, each place is rich with stories.
This is a day that demands a fireplace, if you have one. (I should totally have a fireplace!)
There should be wine (now, that I have) and music (Mozart or Billie Holiday, I dunno–something!…)
Sip wine while staring at the flames, silently listening and deciphering the stories cloaked in the code of the crackling fire.
Even a day uphostered in dreary gray can be brilliant. In the way that being fully present in the moment–either by design or startling inspiration–is brilliant. For
each moment is a story and each moment carries its story into the next moment, joining all stories into one amazing volume (or tapestry, or–insert preferred metaphor
The wine in my glass has a story. It is a pomegranate wine from Armenia–how could it not have a story?!
I have a story. Sometimes I think I have a million of them. My own story and stories I have imagined.
I was born in Dothan, AL, the son of a peanut farmer and his wife. Or, more precisely, I was born in Dothan, AL, the son of a
peanut product company salesman and his wife.
Either version, there is much more to the story than those few simple details.
A man, a woman, a baby and some peanuts. Most importantly, there were peanuts.
Some days I fear I am out of stories; sad that the arranging and rearranging of words (and punctuation–there must be punctuation!) may be a lost art to me. My mind a
sieve, the stories slip from my cranium, dripping into my hands for the sole purpose of slipping through my fingers, then falling to the floor.
No matter how hard I may try to scoop them up from the floor, declaring the 3 second rule as I attempt to bring the words back together, the stories pool up, quickly
regroup and then slither away.
Where do they go? Do they wind up with some other, somehow more deserving writer? Perhaps a writer who has a fireplace…?
If there can’t be a fireplace, there should at least be a loft–at least one story up, in a city (Paris would be nice. New York or San Francisco are also more than
acceptable) with large windows and an easy chair or a divan or a day bed–something on which you can sprawl, right by the window, with a truly amazing book, and a
glass of wine (that wine travels well, no matter what the tale…) distracted from the pages of the most excellent book, only as the gray of the day fades into night,
causing the lights of the city to ignite, like a fire. (Not necessarily a fire in a fireplace, but some other good kind of fire, you know?)
The glorious view provides the perfect punctuation (for there must be punctuation!) for the day.
A cloudy, dreary day.
Present moments strung together, shining like the lights of the city, viewed from the window of a loft, while reading a book about drinking wine in front of a
fireplace. The stories. The crackle of the flames.
The city lights through the loft window or the warm glow from the fireplace reveal a spot, previously unnoticed, where the stories that have hit the floor have left a
residue made up of words that were left behind when a story slipped through fingers and then escaped. Perhaps these words were slower than the rest and got left
behind. Perhaps these are rebellious words who simply refused to leave.
By the florescent light of the kitchen, I gather the words carefully. All words are salvagable.
I will go locate some punctuation and see what can be made.
A gray day, with clouds, well spent, is brilliant, like the present moment, fully noticed, whether by design or sudden inspiration, is brilliant.