Some Alphabet Soup at Lunchtime
I’m sure you, my faithful reader are agonizing these days. You are asking yourself “Why doesn’t he write? I am hungry for his words and he is starving me.” I’m sure you are starving, but trust me there are plenty of other writers out there in this great fishbowl of words who’s alphabet soup is far more delicious than mine. You might try a spoonful of William T. Vollmann who traveled the Earth thoroughly in the course of two years and went to every prohibited place imaginable. Or perhaps Henry Miller, who speaks so directly of his affairs, you might avoid buses and other public places for fear that your cheeks may Benidict Arnold your voyeristic pleasure, and who you might shut away indignantly if not for his elegant craft and insight.
I like to take sips now and again, while half-lying, legs propped at angles over the arm and back rest, back to the wall on my yellow vinyl couch, the one that is enchanted. It’s true, it is enchanted. Justas told me of his unimaginable dreams, recurring every time he awoke and drifted away again. David slept and visioned the future of his family five or ten years from now. And to me it grants peace of mind. A sitting place where thoughts evaporate, language and image are forgotten and music pulsing from the other wall sails idly through the vessel of my mind, erstwhile I take spoonfuls of alphabet soup, warm in my hands and sweet on my tongue.
Winter comes, but softly again. Wrap your face in a scarf upon waking, but by noon a sweater will do. I walk down the steps of the gym. The sun still in the early stages of a cycle of that eternal act of rising. Rays filter through the nightshift fog and evenly light the morning streets like a studio. I breathe lightly as I walk by the overpass. That concrete structure and the shopwalls create a channel for the stench of sewer and smoke. Some days I must stifle a gag. Pigeons alight as I pass my alley and pause, camera in hand, to contemplate whether this is the morning to remember... or not. At five to nine I arrive at work, breakfast roll and juice bottle in hand, say good morning to the early rising desk staff and head to the computer room to surf the net for a few minutes before duty and boredom compell me to stop staring at the screen and go prepare for kindergarten classes.
What did I used to do on the internet for hours anyway?
It’s boring, isn’t it?
That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?
