Tuesday

I lay awake in the early hours again this morning and finally reaching sleep awoke with the fading afternoon. I realized after reading Dostoyevsky that the saddest verses are always written in the evening after the sun sets, and the happiest ones are composed in the receding twilight of the morning. Those written in the middle of the day are forgotten.

People have often wondered why the birds sing at dawn, whether the phenomena is the result of a collective unconscious or the survival instinct of social animals to allow one another to know that others of their kind are still alive after the dark night. I think it's simply the stillness of the morning, and like those happy verses the birds realize that singing is best at those hours when the wind is still and the rest of the natural world still slumbers or moves silently to daily resting places. When the wind howls and the rain crashes in the dawn, the birds don't sing.

The apple trees are blooming, and the streets smell like an old woman who still winks at the young men in downtown shops. The plants are in their adolescence, vibrant with deep greens and lush with moisture. Soon, will come June. June is my favorite month. I am hoping that June will make me forget money and all that comes with it.

There is a man with a camouflaged car outside in the alley--he's turning now. I wonder if he likes the novelty of it, or actually believes that his Corsica will conceal him when the fall comes and the birds turn around. Maybe he was bored.

My gay and never-met friend Landon is conversing with me via Messenger right now. Pictures of boys and requests for me to judge them. He sends me another, and I respond with sincere disinterest, "Nah, too young. Has a football-player face."


This is Tuesday.