open space

This morning; a new day; another day.
I wrote first thing this morning, a few words in my dayplanner, my daily thoughts.
I chose to write with a Kate Spade pencil. I have a thing for polka dots (or pokka dots, as my daughter used to call them).
Anyone who knows me, knows I have a pencil obsession. Besides being the most practical, and purposeful, writing instrument, I see the pencil as a thing of beauty both by design, and for the words they generate.
The words I wrote this morning were long before the world knew of Kate Spade’s death. Now, as I read my thoughts, I can only see a certain irony. I chose to write with something that was, to me, a little bit of beauty, something created by a person who, in her own way, brought a little bit of joy to the lives of people who cherished items she created. Possessions.
Sadly, today, Kate Spade could not see that joy.
Tragically, she could not feel her own joy.

06/05/2018                                j.g.l.

Them that shall know are often
the last to notice, and those that
do should be mindful that foresight
is neither as accurate nor as
compelling as what plays out in
real time. Dream as you do at 2:03;
completely and unconsciously.
Let the mind fill with all the grace
and grandeur of an undisciplined
destiny, but know the conscience
of the aftermath knows the
realization of natural reflection
and intention.

j.g.l.

Is it the rhythm, the words, or the notes? The song comes back, again, finding its way into your head. Into your heart. It has been there before. Many times. Different times, at various stages of your life; unfamiliar lovers, those from the past. Now. Gone. The song is still there. ‘I’m not sure all these people understand.’ They didn’t. Maybe this one will. You still try to comprehend the circumstance, but the lyrics and that rich, purposeful melody take over. At 3:19 nothing else matters. Not even sleep. Not at the moment. ‘Nightswimming’ deserves a quiet night.

j.g.l.

Thoughts travel further this time of night. Gas station attendant struggles with the language, but that’s alright. Price at the pump keeps going up, and nobody can explain why anyway. 
There’s a pick-up game of softball in the Wal-Mart parking lot, a camper trailer from Nebraska parked past centre field, and late-model imports flow by on the four-lane. Everyone is immune to it all.
Nightclubs are shutting down, last call a while ago. Someone is going home with somebody new, others are going home alone, or speed dialing a friend with benefits and hoping the benefits have not expired. The radio repeats the news that Philip Roth has left this earth, and at 2:27 all you can wonder is how many of his books you have read, and what someone else is thinking on a night where thoughts flow further, but you have no idea where they will end up.
 It used to be called insomnia.

j.g.l.