Driving I-287 East. A long day, longer.

I duck out of the office. It’s been a long day.

Waze flashes an estimate for a quick ride home: 28 minutes.  The Dark Sky App sends an alert: Large storm is bearing down.

I’m one mile from the exit to I-95 on I-287.

The sky blackens.

A few leaves gust and float overhead.

Another wind gust blows a large swarm of leaves from the hillside, they hang mid-air, swirl and gust upward in a wind tunnel. Ominous.

Then comes the rain.

Then darkness. [Read more…]

I’m sure I’m going to pay in the next life.

Richards thinks about how it all started, when he was just a kid dreaming of getting out of his London suburb. “I had no idea I was a songwriter,” he says. “I wasn’t sitting down and trying to be Gershwin. I can’t read a note of music. It’s all in the ears and from the heart—that’s all it is. I can’t believe I pulled it off, really.

“I’ve been so lucky, I don’t believe it,” he continues. “I’m sure I’m going to pay in the next life. Hell is really going to be hell for me. I don’t know why I’ve been given all this. You couldn’t dream it up, man, you couldn’t write it.”

And soon, back to work. More shows to play, more songs to chase. The Rolling Stones must go on, for the generation that grew up with them and the generations that don’t know a world without them.

“Now, there’s the air that you breathe, there’s the water you drink, and there’s the f—ing Rolling Stones,” says Richards. “We’ve been here forever—that’s the weirdest thing, ‘Oh, they’ve always been there.’ Wait till they’re gone, pal.”

~ Alan Light, from The Wisdom of Keith Richards (wsj.com, February 28, 2018)

Walking the floor. Sewn into our skins.

The walkway to the entrance is a shadow, sprayed clean, still moist in its elongated drying cycle in the early morning humidity in August – the industrial hose is wrapped tightly in the hidden wall closet.

The silver trash can standing a few feet from the elevator has been wiped down and emptied.

The rug under the desk is now free of the paper chads that spilled from the three-hole punch that was toppled over when rushing to answer the phone.

The trash can under the desk with the wax paper Chick-fil-A wrapper has been emptied, along with the paper pocket which held the home fries.

The paper dispenser in the men’s room is replenished. The bathroom floors have been scrubbed with a fresh lemon scented cleaner. The sinks are clean and dry, the toilets wiped down, the mirrors are spot-free and gleam.

My desk top has been wiped clean, yesterday wiped away.

My hands rest on the desktop.

Her hands rest under her head.  She sleeps now, and she sleeps hard. She’ll be up in a few hours catching a bus for her second job, laundry and folding sheets for a Comfort Inn.

Investigators dusting this scene and applying a flourescent dye stain and a burst of orange light would find her fingerprints everywhere. The desks. The computer screens. The walls. The floors. The door knobs. The sinks. The toilets.

Kafka was right.

People are sewn into their skins and can’t alter the seams.

The phone rings, breaking the spell.

I’m back, back in my skin.

~ DK


Notes:

I might have been myself minus amazement

Transient Desert Sands - rob woodcut

I am who I am.
A coincidence no less unthinkable
than any other.

I could have different
ancestors, after all,
I could have fluttered
from another nest
or crawled bescaled
from under another tree.

Nature’s wardrobe
holds a fair supply of costumes:
spider, seagull, field mouse.
Each fits perfectly right off
and is dutifully worn
into shreds.

I didn’t get a choice either,
but I can’t complain.
I could have been someone
much less separate.
Someone from an anthill, shoal, or buzzing swarm,
an inch of landscape tousled by the wind.

Someone much less fortunate,
bred for my fur
or Christmas dinner,
something swimming under a square of glass.

A tree rooted to the ground
as the fire draws near.

A grass blade trampled by a stampede
of incomprehensible events.

A shady type whose darkness
dazzled some.

What if I’d prompted only fear,
loathing,
or pity?

If I’d been born
in the wrong tribe,
with all roads closed before me?

Fate has been kind
to me thus far.

I might never have been given
the memory of happy moments.

My yen for comparison
might have been taken away.

I might have been myself minus amazement,
that is,
someone completely different.

~ Wisława Szymborska, “Among The Multitudes“, Poems New and Collected 


Notes:

When the world quiets to the sound of your own breathing, we all want the same things

Mitch-Albom

I used to think I knew everything. I was a “smart person” who “got things done,” and because of that, the higher I climbed, the more I could look down and scoff at what seemed silly or simple, even religion. But I realized something as I drove home that night: that I am neither better nor smarter, only luckier. And I should be ashamed of thinking I knew everything, because you can know the whole world and still feel lost in it. So many people are in pain-no matter how smart or accomplished – they cry, they yearn, they hurt. But instead of looking down on things, they look up, which is where I should have been looking, too. Because when the world quiets to the sound of your own breathing, we all want the same things: comfort, love, and a peaceful heart.

― Mitch Albom


Mitch Albom, 55, was born in Passaic, New Jersey.  He is an American best-selling author of the blockbuster bestsellers Tuesdays With MorrieThe Five People You Meet In Heaven and For One More Day. His books have sold over 35 million copies worldwide. He was an acclaimed sports journalist at the Detroit Free Press and he is a frequent participant on the ESPN Sports Reporters. Albom has also achieved success as a screenwriter, dramatist, radio broadcaster and musician.

He grew up in a small, middle-class neighborhood from which most people never left. Mitch was once quoted as saying that his parents were very supportive, and always used to say, “Don’t expect your life to finish here. There’s a big world out there. Go out and see it.” Albom once mentioned that now his parents say, “Great. All our kids went and saw the world and now no one comes home to have dinner on Sundays.”


Credits: Portrait. Quote: Thank you Geoff.


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