Skip to content

After Mid-Night

July 18, 2014

Ah, alone, in relative quiet, some passing cars, perhaps the faint sound of the surf.  For a few hours silence, if not sleep.  The daytime tyranny of others has disappeared, no one else to make me suffer, except perhaps my own self.

The key in the lock & darkness like a bath, just one light, enough to write by, the dim light of my laptop.

Sad life, sad, dismal city.  Let me look back over the events of the day:

  • late getting in to work again, but no one cares, I am a shadow at an old desk;
  • during a long lunch at the café chatted briefly with Leigh, but she was busy;
  • daydreamed in the afternoon, wandered online during my afternoon break;
  • after work at the Library to check for some early surrealist novels, Aragon, Soupault, Breton, on the computer, will have to order them through inter-library loans;
  • summertime tourists polluting the streets, the parking lots of restaurants & bars, the motels;
  • a drink at the bar of the Northwoods, spied on, at a patio table, one of the local “poets”, the good-looking poseur with slicked back dark hair, pencil-thin moustache, smokes think brown cigarettes, at a table with a cutey, she a lime-green girly drink, he some pale whiskey neat, & a copy of Les Fleurs du Mal, the Richard Howard translation I think, on the table;
  • later dinner at the diner, one of the city councilmen with his family, a real-estate agent, how I hate Banlon shirts, their wives with hairdos more expensive than my rent;
  • avoided the Sports Bar coming home, the sunglasses on the baseball caps, the big-boys in shorts.

Now, dissatisfied with my life, dissatisfied with everything else too — except this silence of the night & the solitude, crowded with the images of the loves, those I have seen, lusted after, sung to, held: keep me from the vanities of this world, its cheap contamination.  My notebooks seem thin, faded, spilt on.  All I want for the rest is a few good lines to prove I’m not like those lunks in the Sports Bars of Life, or the poseurs sipping the phony Chardonnay of “Art”.  Who will notice?


From → Leigh, Ponderings

Leave a Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: