What A Time To Be Alive

I stay on the sunny side of the walk to the subway for as long as possible, glorying in the soft blue sky and the cool air. Of course, my brain won’t let me stay in this blissful state for too long, so I inevitably start thinking about the fact that it’s going to be warmer earlier every year until the world is totally uninhabitable. 

But we just sort of live like this, creeping toward destruction without knowing how to stop it.

That being said, the cherry trees have already blossomed, and the gingko trees, cryptic and angular like certain melodies from Japan, have already begun to bud, and I love them enough to put aside my gloomy thoughts. 

Different Solutions

It’s not so much fog as a cloud that’s lost it’s ambition, and all the streetlights and stoplights are simultaneously hazed and brightened, refracted into sharp electric halos that make me squint. 

Two men walking down the sidewalk come upon a puddle. One steps around it, the other detours up on to the steps of the brownstone, effectively walking over it. Neither breaks stride, both seem perfectly content with their own way of handling the problem, neither seem to be perturbed by the way the other dealt with it.

Volatility

Katie and I set up her art today for an exhibition this weekend, so of course it rained. When Katie asked me why it always seemed to rain whenever we were setting up for shows, I said that I thought that it was because the shows are always at the beginning of the unsettled seasons, spring and fall. Summer and winter are the settled seasons, long periods of the same or almost the same for days or weeks at a time, but spring and fall are the seasons of quick changes, highs and lows, glorious days chased quickly by gloom.

An old man named Jim helped us in the parking lot as we loaded in, and I think he really took a shine to Katie, not that she was trying to manipulate her, just that few people are immune to the charms of a pretty redhead, myself included, which is why I ended up here in the first place. 

Cat Dad

As soon as the new cat tree is in its spot in the corner, the cats are checking it out. Wallace, the more intrepid of the two, grapples her way to the top with a grim resolve, while Davis sniffs tentatively at the base and lets her sister do reconnaissance. As their bravery increases, they slink between levels with athletic grace and occasional stubbornness, fighting small feuds with one another, parkouring to seemingly unattainable perches, and attacking the scratching posts with savage ferocity.

It takes us a good hour to get the thing fixed up so that it's stable and won’t fall to rubble under their delicate ministrations, and as I watch them finally sleep at the top, Davis slit-eyed and content, Wallace crashed out in oblivion, I find myself thinking about how Dad would put together my toys for me on Christmas, and if the singing in my heart is any indication of how he felt, I get why he tried so hard for me.