I've been leading a quiet life in my new home. I wake up most mornings; some, I forego, letting sleep's seductive whispers spirit me to the afternoon. The bus hisses to a halt every fifteen minutes, starting at 6:47. When the pain courses through my neck, I lie awake, waiting for the rewarding rumble of the bus through the quiet streets.
Most days are spent listening. I listen, hunkered down in my bucket seat in class room 247. I listen, sprawled out on the burm over McCarthy Quad. Some days I talk, and talk, and talk. But mostly I just listen.
I like to think about all the things I'd want to write about. I think about them on the Dash that carries me down Figeroua to the Financial district; I think about them, smoking a cigar on my balcony; I think about them in my car, headed to Westwood. Some days I write, and write, and write. But mostly I just think about it.
Books, half-read, litter my desk. I snack on Peanut Butter crackers and Goldfish and try not to lose hope in democracy. I raise my arms toward heaven but the left hangs limply at my side. I skim across sidewalks, the cracked concrete open up like slivers to the center of the earth. Bums are my friends, and A Life In Letters is my family.
I never used to laugh, but now I do.
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3 comments:
Quiet makes life jump out at you. It's pretty vibrant (I say this because I start to observe colors more when my life slows down... funny, I know). I'm thankful that it sounds like a good chapter for you. I know it is for me right now (post-Biola).
p.s. Nice pic. Where'd you take that? Oh, at my Gyrad? Sweet.
My my, this is beautiful.
(pause) you know, I think I'm going to leave it at that.
your attention to detail is exquisite.
"I never used to laugh, but now I do."
pure gold.
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