back to the night shift

A stolen night. A hint of times to come when the short spring gives way to the long, hot nights of southern swelter. I'm here, now. It's Wednesday.

In the Winter I am James Brown, slinking off the stage covered in a cloak, all my energies drained and the show is over. I need the single warm breeze; I need the first night in the 50's and I can fling off the cover and slide back under the lights. I feel good. I knew that I would now.



So things move on. I am settling into my groove and each piece is becoming more autonomous and I go where it leads me. I reached for the cerulean blue; I saw the blue in the sky on Sunday and it jumped out of the piles of tubes on the table tonight screaming, "I am the Spring, I am life." True, it will get cold again. The flowers will bloom prematurely and the fragile buds will get frozen, it happens every year. But now I've seen the end, and now it feels good to be in here and to work.


The mangling and muddling and laying down; tonight I was laying it down. A drink at home before bed and the sleep that comes from doing work worthwhile. And in my mind, there is a small glimmer of hope that I may yet walk the Brooklyn streets at the end of the month.