It is a beautiful evening. A Virginia Woolf kind of evening. It’s warm outside, no wind. The crickets are still singing this late in the season.
I’m thinking and writing below the radar. You’re gonna get a little of my subconscious here. It’s all and everything I want to give tonight.
There’s a little eco system living on my porch. A half-inch spider created a triangular web using a flower box filled with shamrocks and the porch ledge as two of its three sides. He sat underneath his web near the bottom edge of the box and waited for prey until I set my wine glass down and he scurried under the flower box. Soon he realized the glass wasn’t a threat and came out once again to wait for a gnat or fruit fly.
My next door neighbor is a music professor and is giving a recital in a few weeks. She’s been practicing every night for a month. Tonight I was listening to Classic Vinyl on Sirius radio, blasting it out the front windows as I sat on the porch, and as I listened to her and the radio I realized there is not much difference between Eric Clapton and Bach or Bachman Turner Overdrive and Rachmaninoff. When Clapton sang “Bell Bottom Blues,” the music was in sync with the Bach melody she was playing. When BTO sang “Takin’ Care of Business,” Rachmaninoff was a background singer.
It’s been that kind of day. An early fall warm day when you take everything for granted. Like the very small sparrows at the feeder and the ones blending into the grass below, everything moved and lived without question. My dogs ate their food, I bought thyme and paper towels at the grocery store, the DHL guy brought me a package, I watered the begonias. Nothing spectacular or out of the ordinary, yet spectacular and extraordinary.
Why? I’m not sure. Do you ever feel sometimes like you’re living a little outside yourself, just for a second, and can appreciate the rhythm of your life?
Beethoven, Zack the dog across the street, the little light in my window in the shape of a star, the people up the street laughing on their porch. Even the college students drinking beer on their rooftop a half block away. They are comforting and normal. I like normal. I crave normal. I crave similar. Eric Clapton is like Bach. Rachmaninoff would’ve written “Dixie Chicken” if he’d been alive in 1973. We’re all little sparrows at the feeder, most of us minding our own business and being normal.
It’s a beautiful early fall evening and maybe it’s time for chocolate. Or popcorn. Or a carrot. I can’t decide. These are the kinds of things that fall out of my head and out my fingers on the keyboard. I’m not Virginia Woolf, but I kind of understand her feeling of normal.