My home is on Aurora Avenue. The street dips and curves as my house extends herself to meet it, as though it was a pier, afloat on concrete water.
Sometimes I perch on my swaying couch and watch the vehicles sail toward me and quickly move around the pier with fluidity and automation. No faces to be seen, no bodies revealing control as their hands grip the wheels, but merely the metal and steel and glass following the external lines with ease.
Today the rain feels like syrup. It sticks and coats and refuses to come off. If I think too hard about it, an encroaching sense of claustrophobia and panic hungers to ensue.
Rain has the connotation of renewal in which the dirt, crustiness, and smell are washed away, but not this day. No, not this day.
I’m alone a lot lately with my vocation still needing chiseling. I have a big slab of stone that follows me, everywhere, whereby I ponder upon how to chisel out the already formed, but not yet seen future of mine. Michelangelo would have been great to have around. He was not bound to the unformed mass, but to the notion that something was about to emerge from it, one strike at a time. Thus, he chiseled out a fine butt on the David and enabled the Academia to eternally generate revenue.
Eternally generate revenue.
This sounds like a bad metaphor created by a bad mega-church pastor.
Maybe this same pastor would advise me to lift the stone and give it to God. But, maybe I’ll just roll it off my pier, stop traffic and stand atop it with the odorless, tasteless syrup coating me and sing a little diddy by Rod Stewart.
I wonder what Rod’s stone looked like prior to his hit, “Do You Think I’m Sexy?”
Maybe it wasn’t a stone.
Goes the weasel.