Reawakening, before an unexpected encounter.

I am lured out of my hot apartment by the promise of potato chips and a cool night. I cross a bridge over a highway and a sign flashes below announcing that a section of the freeway is closed. I feel a strange urge to thank the sign for informing me, despite the fact that I don’t drive, and that signs don’t have feelings. The sudden whimsicality reminds me of that Steve Martin movie, L.A. Story? Kind of like mine, except I’ve never been to California. Not like mine at all then probably. I twist words around trying to describe this thought with rhyme or any kind of simple cleverness. My mind gnaws on the various levels of observation, a bizarre series of meta-analysis fueled by one fantastical notion after another. The flashing inspiration is such a thing. The cars race by, even at two in the morning people flit about like individual swarms, a mess of tangled thoughts and feelings. The sign doesn’t mind or care. There is a person out there who invented the system of lights that now oscillate on the road, and there is another person who set the specific type on this sign, and there is still yet another person who dragged this sign into position. These people and the hundreds of others responsible (for there are hundreds of people involved in the making of any thing) are probably asleep right now. If they are awake, they are not musing about the sign they bred, or about the people they touch infinitesimally by its creation. The fact that this idle pondering blocks out the music from my headphones is a good sign. The fact that I purchased this pad of paper and this pen along with my snack is a better one. It’s been a long time since I’ve found pleasure in any kind of expression. Struck by euphoria on the heels of grief, my mind has had little else to do than react. My classes are done and my grief calms. My euphoria settles into a more orderly happiness. For a time my mind has been racing wildly, like a child running down a steep hill, afraid to stop lest he fall into injury. I organized my spare time into listening to convenient music, doing crossword puzzles, meeting new people, and generally being without being. Anything that demanded a productive and graceful combination of introspection and expression resulted in unruly bouts of rage. Irrational, spastic frustration came seemingly from nowhere like so many metaphors about bursting, flooding, dams, cracking, plugs, anything that might describe a careful restraint battered by futility. I sought refuge in distractions, hoping that time and careful probing would show me a way. It is easy to blame the caffeine, the sugar, the alcohol, unhealthy sleeping, and day-to-day stresses for my violent lack of inspiration but as I walk tonight, I feel a change. It came the same way most change does, when you only notice it after its arrival. It might have happened gradually or in a flash, there’s no way to tell. The shadow is gone. My thoughts are sharp, wide, and shallow, glistening like a pond in early sunlight. New thought like tentative little shoots popping up all over your untended lawn in the spring. Violets and those little blue flowers I’ve never known the name of that cover whole hillsides for a week and then disappear. Pretty weeds, difficult to organize but not always unwelcome. They do much more than herald a new season, and so too do these thoughts in my head. They are inconsequential, but they represent a ripening optimism. I don’t seek peace, from within or without, but I am always grateful when the tedium is lifted from things I know ought to bring me joy. I notice a passing motor as having two strokes and thank my settled happiness. I am eager to get back to the warmth of my apartment. I’ve eaten a whole small bag of kosher dill flavoured chips while sitting at a picnic table in front of a closed bar, under a streetlamp. This part of the city is very quiet and I find myself grateful for the cool night and the long walk to the only open shop. A smile creeps across my face as I extend my gratitude to the long walk home.