It was morning, blue and heavy. The rhythmic stepping of feet surfaced and swayed in my uncertain consciousness. Small, white feathers brushed the cement like a baby's fingers; they blew in the frigid air, amazingly sensitive to any subtle breeze. It was mesmerizing to watch. Thoughts of ballerinas materialized and dissolved, and the phrase alka-seltzer of the mind fizzled away nearly unnoticed. The fishing pole I was holding struck a street light and brought to life a metallic ringing that wavered and faded coldly. It did not startle me, because nothing startled me. I pulled my hat around my ears and tied the string around my chin, shifting my pack.
When I've fallen into doldrums and I feel alone, which is every day, I go to the wharf and fish. The pier where I toss my bait out is long and wooden. It balances on posts that have been rotted and turned green by time and oceanic life.
The pigeons twitter in the streets at all hours. Their eyes shine like baby oil slicks, their voices warble and waver.
The fishing was bad that morning; the fishing is always bad here.
The train to Zone Four was rapid and clattering. I was bobbing a little with its movement. Sometimes I feel like an African queen, but when I read about Zimbabwe in the newspaper, I remember that they don't have those anymore. Dozing was full of small children with bulging empty stomachs. Inertia awakened me at Zone Four around midday, and as always, and the train abandoned me and my Samsonite. I trailed around to the other platform and read the schedule. The train back home was due momentarily.
Waiting and moving, I am always waiting and moving. Isn't that all we ever do around here? Wait for things then move about? I think sometimes that life is about displacement. Though ultimately, my displacement is zero once I fall back into bed.
What is this freedom business? I think I'm a nonbeliever in the American dream.
Some days the dullness is a sludge I cannot escape. The pain of wakefulness ate away at my scalp until I crawled from beneath the bedsheets. Positive displacement time. Thwap thwap thwap, said my fishing pole. Canned soup for breakfast, said my stomach. The pier augmented with every step. The water was washing. The algae was swishing back and forth, to and fro. Again below the surface the water was empty.
The fishing was bad this morning; the fishing is bad every morning.
There are pigeons everywhere. There is a pigeon dead and floating in the stagnant, rocking bay. There are pigeons pecking at the rotting wood on which I stand. A pigeon tries to land on my shoulder. Coo, coo, whirrrrr! That's what the pigeons say. They flap and stir up a tiny hurricane of white feathers.
I rode the trains for hours and looked at things. I looked at the same things again. My syntax rarely changes. First this, then that. Occasionally, though, I can exchange them. Sometimes.
Inspiration
