I awoke too early for such a late night. They weren't there and I was locked out. The lights were off. I waited, pulling the black cowl that I half-stole from the lost and found box over my head and hugged Sailhamer's book.
-Listen to the birds. Those are lovely harmonies. Llewyn Davis must have listened to these. Just a little bit longer. You're early, but there has got to be someone here soon. Give them a minute to open the door. Certainly they saw saw you come around the back. Watch your breath curl like smoke. Watch the sun coming up. Don't you want to paint it tucking from behind the trees like a flashlight through a spider's web. The door clicked, someone unlocking
-You must be freezing. It was the young man who had served me the tomato Basil soup three weeks before that I had decided I wouldn't order again.
-hello, I shivered.
-I think your group canceled, he said. He was in two places: half of him inside, half of him passed the doorway.
-really? Crap. I gave one of those smiles people do when they are shivering and scowling, but smiling instead.
-Can I get you anything warm? Coffee, soup?
-I should probably head out, but thank you. You should have said yes. Why do you always say 'no thank you'?
I drove 7th until Kellogg, John Ireland and Selby. At Nina's, I sat between five elderly gentlemen with their unfolded and crinkling New York Times and refilled mugs of steaming roast. Some were waiting for their wives to share breakfast, some were waiting for no one. I rolled up my worn plaid sleeves, then unrolled them because I was fidgety on my second mug and empty stomach. I finished a book, pulled out a newspaper; pretending I was an old man. I watched June meander around the store, offering a plateful of pastries and chatting with regulars. I watched a father, with newborn son in a stroller, sit beside his three young daughters, the first two little women seemingly from a lost Victorian novel, however the youngest daughter wore a raincoat much too big for her and knee high rain-boots that couldn't seem to stand still. I don't know which world she was in, her imagination absorbing thoughts through her bright eyes, but I would have liked to visit it. Instead I visited the bookstore below and bought a captivating book, though I would have rather visited her world.
I wore my Lowa's to church. Light pooled through the rounded glass, echoing us. Counting birds, I walked: a pear, bottled water, and apple in my satchel strapped to back. I planted a tree in the city. I put the streets to memory. I took a path I hadn't tried. I called back to the Pine Siskins, Dark-eyed Junkos and Purple Finches. I walked, as though my feet were writing a letter in cursive; a prayer to God. The miles weaving into hours, clocks losing their power: I was released. There is something though, how after being under the sky and sun, alone on your feet for so long a time, wandering with inner compass--there is something how after all this, one sees clearly. Maybe it's the fresh air, maybe it's the limitless possibilities that awaken and swallow all of you, maybe it's God breathing. Again, inspiring. Left or right? Road to next, I prodded... something deeper moved me, answered.
I am glad I walked. My one full day off work. I walk. I will always walk. When I walk, I can feel, I can think, and I don't struggle to find words. They are there; accessible, at the tip of my tongue. 1 John was a song through and through me. I've been re-reading it again, twice and twice. Mostly on accident. But I choose to. It swells within me. Every line making more sense, finding its place of comprehension, tangible: everything connecting. And I get it.
I explored a vacated property and peered into latticed windows with two strangers, now friends (how beautifully and passionately curious they were), the house hasn't been lived in since last year May. Rot inched up the walls and caved in the roof where siding curled. It was large and the upper level windowpanes cracked to let in birds. Rabbit pellets covered the backyard. One startled me. Antique paintings and musty books frothing with dust and strong smell... we wanted to buy it and start again. Give it back the life it once had. It was so easy to see how beautiful it had once been. As we circled the house, the decay became more evident. The weight felt tragic. As we parted ways, we decided that we were glad the birds and bunnies had such a home.
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