Don’t ask how far over the bridge I had to hang to take this picture in low light without a flash. I snapped it at 3:33 a.m. I’m not sure why I love this picture so much. I’m still on a long walk across Fayetteville. The U of A was gorgeous with both beautiful buildings and homes surrounding it. It’s a different experience at that hour, with strategically placed lights that disappear in the day. The crescent moon watched me as I navigated through places I should not have gone thanks to the road construction on West Maple.
Because I did not plan my route, the series of hills made me breathe harder than an octogenarian watching Dancing With The Stars. When I made my way back north, the breeze was a godsend. I was sweatier than JD Vance at a La-Z-Boy auction.
Another beautiful walk. I’m not home yet because I overestimated the arc of how far south I went. The incessant buzz of insects keeps me company as I wander.
Every new shiny place I passed was originally something else. Sometimes it clicks what those buildings used to be. 10 years ago. 50 years ago. I’m not sure whether these buildings are more historical than I am.
A huge bolt of lightning shook the neighborhood shortly before 1:30 a.m. Even though it’s rare for me, I had miraculously fallen back to sleep after waking up around midnight. I was dreaming so intensely that the lightning strike seemed to have followed me out of the dream. I’m certain that one part of the dream resulted from a conversation I had yesterday when I explained that I track how many days old I am.
It’s rare for me to remember my dreams vividly. Since my sleep pattern switched a few years ago, my brain retreats to a dead place that is more akin to hibernation than sleep.
Today is my first day off work all year. It didn’t occur to me that this was the case until late last week. I decided I would make the final decision as to whether I would work when I woke up this morning. And that if I didn’t go in, I would take a ridiculously long walk. I had to wait for the storm front the mostly move away. For those of you who weren’t up at 1:30, the lightning show was amazing.
I work with several hard workers who don’t get to enjoy the incredible benefit of paid time off. Some of them are losing almost a couple of hundred dollars per pay period because we lose the hours once we are capped out at the maximum. All of us appreciate that we work for an employer with good benefits. But all of us feel the cringe of being put in a situation where we can’t enjoy it because of understaffing. Whether I should say that or not is another issue. But everyone knows that burnout is unsafe for us as individuals and as workers.
Perhaps they grind of work is training for the upcoming economic mess. There is no doubt it is coming and its tendrils will affect all but a few of us. I can picture my grandma saying, “there ain’t no belt tightening when someone has taken your belt.”
My long walk was beautiful. The strange misty glow of the early morning-late night after rain lights. The smell from the rain and the clingng heat. The empty roads that I walked down the middle of. A family of raccoons that complained as I unknowingly walked by. An unseen young woman on one of the balconies of the beautiful modern apartments flanking Gregg, as she beautifully and melodically sang a song I wasn’t familiar with, and a song probably unwelcome to the ears of the other residents. (But for me, as an accidental audience, it was perfect.) The long stretches of both hill and road. The night time summer sky billowing with retreating white clouds. The occasional person on a scooter; some of them involuntarily participating in the morning.
I hated giving up ownership of the streets. Leaving the unobserved and frozen in time houses with all the residents tucked away inside.
It’s hard to explain how rounding a corner and seeing strange orange glow of a section of road brings on the same feelings that “Something Wicked This Way Comes,” or “Stranger Things ” It’s just a stretch of road illuminated by optical illusions. But you weren’t there when I looked to my left and saw a ground light being temporarily blocked by a cat who was creeping along the edge of the driveway. It was accidental synchronicity and caused the hair on my arms to stand. I stopped to take a picture of the light. But that’s all it is. People sound a little off when they try to express how such little moments are entirely different when they are experienced.
The same is true for most of us when we listen to someone describe their dream. The narrative loses the immersive magic that held the storyteller captive while they were experiencing it.
X
.
(I added the word death to the mailbox as a joke…)
…
The dream:
Instead of a tombstone, the grave was marked by a tall crystal spire. Somehow, I knew that it wasn’t an actual grave and that inside whatever what was in the ground was nothing more than a DNA sample.
The sun peeking through the trees was orange red and seemed off in a way I couldn’t precisely explain.
Even the air felt thin and reprocessed.
The dash of the dates didn’t initially make sense: “1967-23,666.” Then I realized whoever designed it knew about my penchant to calculate my age based on the number of days instead of years.
Turning my head, I saw that four people stood behind me. Each of them carried a vial of colored sand. The sand shown brilliantly, like ground diamonds.
They didn’t speak English but I understood them.
“Does anyone have anything they would like to say?” I couldn’t see who voiced the words.
“No. I think he said it all before he left.”
As I turned my head again, the four people moved closer. I didn’t step away. They passed through me as they approached the spire. I felt like I had become mist.
Each of them opened their tiny vials and poured the contents into a almost invisible seam about halfway up the spiral. Flashes of almost every color began washing over the grass around them.
They disappeared as the sky became dark, like a sped up movie traversing time. As I watched the sun slide down the sky, my field of vision collapsed into a single dot of rainbow colored light and then disappeared.
Because of the unique view my apartment grants me, I’ve noticed there are certain moments before sunrise when there are fleeting moments of beauty. This mimosa stands guard across the street, adjacent to the railroad tracks. Because of the beautiful trail enhancements and the modern lighting that adorns it, there are a handful of minutes when the mimosa seems to be backlit. The brooding clouds seen to enhance it. I took this picture twenty-two minutes before sunrise.
Some people dislike silk trees because of the perceived mess and the gnarled roots that provide unexpected trips. But if you are a fan of hummingbirds, butterflies, and bees, these are among the best places to stand and watch when the sun is attempting to toast your head.
If I could pick a time of day to render as static and unchanged, it might be the time shortly before sunrise. When the subdued colors are HDR and the world waits to be awakened. If you stand still, each minute changes both in hue and feel.
The second picture is looking down Leverett where it reaches its end against the agri park. To the left is Narnia, fourteen acres of dense, wild growth that holds thousands of birds and small animals. Even though it’s difficult to see, at the bottom of the first towering electrical pole is a public notice that this property will soon be erased to become a dense housing complex. Everything about this little private area will change forever when that happens.
It doesn’t resemble much seen up close. But under the darker sombrous canopy of trees above the creek, shimmering with sunlight shadows, it looked alien and transplanted. I wish I had brought my markers and chalk to further adorn it and give it a bit of life through color.
Traversing the creek, the water granted me a sudden reminder that light refraction hides unexpected depths and drop offs. More so in clear water. I did not bite my tongue as I stepped a foot deeper than I anticipated.
From there I found a delightful sand and sediment bar. Once stepped on, I sank a foot and a half. I’m glad it ended there because getting out of those things is more of a goal than a certainty.
If you know where to look, there’s a hidden field along Green Acres Road. And if you’re out early enough walking in the magical hour before dawn, you can stop and watch the bats frolic. If you stand next to the beautiful decaying tree and look up, the bats will perform for you. Although the approaching morning sun diminishes their visibility, you can look up and see the moon and Venus twinkling. I don’t go watch the bats often enough.
I love writing about positive interactions. But I remind people that not all of them are. A few minutes ago, I managed to make myself laugh after running into someone who thinks the world was created just for her.
Wandering the park, I was listening and watching for birds. Not people.
“What are you doing?” The woman’s voice surprised me. I looked up to see a woman standing a few feet away. She held a leash attached to a beautiful dog.
“I’m enjoying the morning. How are you doing?” I smiled as I looked away from my bird app for a second.
“No, I meant, what are YOU doing?” There was a tone to her voice, one which implied that she was both the gatekeeper of the area and had the right to ask anyone at any time how dare they be where they are.
“Right now, I’m wondering how cleverly I can indirectly insult you so that you’ll go about your morning and enjoy it so that I can do the same.”
“There’s no reason to talk to me that way,” she said, as she pulled on the dog leash. The dog wanted me to pet it. Or perhaps rescue it from the clutches of its owner. She looked the kind of dog owner who would individually count every pebble of food before feeding the dog. I had an aunt like that.
“Well, I hope you enjoy the rest of your day,” I said as I smiled.
The woman grunted and mumbled to herself as she marched away. I’m 100% sure that she wished she had a hard marble surface to stomp on so that I would have to listen to her heels clicking as she high stepped.
When she reached a point about 20 yards away from me and across the steel bridge, I couldn’t resist. Some of the people who know me know I do one hell of a pterodactyl scream. I let loose.
I watched as the woman froze and looked around. Not seeing anything, she returned to her disapproving high step walk. At which point, I let out an even louder pterodactyl scream. She froze again for a second and then walked as fast as anyone can without breaking into a run.
Because of the early hour and the magical absence of traffic or mundane sounds, you might be surprised how far a pterodactyl scream carries in the beautiful misty morning.
I let out five shriekingly loud pterodactyl screams before letting the morning return to its normal quiet state. Just in case someone else is using the Merlin app. They’ll have one hell of a story trying to explain the noise they heard on an early Saturday morning.
It was a rough day today, much like trying to explain the first amendment without flash cards to a cabal of conservative voters.
When I exited the inconvenience store, loud obnoxious music filled the air, as if a tone deaf demon were playing a violin and singing garbled Korean folk music.
I casually looked into the car producing the nightmarish music. A rather menacing-looking man sat in the driver’s seat while smoking a cigar.
Before thinking better of it, I reached into my car and pulled out one of my sets of headphones.
I turned around and asked him if he needed some headphones.
“No, but that was kind of you to offer.” He smiled really big.
“I wasn’t offering them out of kindness. I’m not very fond of my ears bleeding.” Keep in mind that I didn’t smile or give me any indication as to whether I was joking.
The man took a second the process my complaint. Thankfully, he laughed.
“You’re not a fan of Sleazy Milktoast MC?” He asked me. (That’s not what he actually said, but the string of syllables he cited as the name of the alleged singer might as well have been that.)
“I bet it’s good for clearing crowds,” I immediately answered.
“You got jokes! That’s good. Hit me with another one.”
It took me less than 1/20th of a second to fire back. “That music is to rap music what Creed is to rock.”
He laughed hard again. “What are you listening to in your tiny blue car?”
“Since I qualify for AARP, I’m required by federal law to listen to NPR or hardcore elevator music.”
Because I just received a gift of the kind of expensive headphones I would never buy myself in a million years, I offered him my $12 pair again.
“Nah, I’m good. Listening is performance art.” He grinned at his own cleverness.
We exchanged a couple of more rapid-fire good-intentioned insults before I got in my car. It was very difficult to pretend that I wasn’t listening to NPR as I drove off. I waved as I drove away. He laughed again and waved his cigar out the window.
X
.
PS The included picture has zero to do with my story. The man in the picture was just an interesting guy out enjoying the day on the trail.
Dickson Street is a ghost town early in the morning, after all the night zombies make their exodus. I love the experience of seeing and hearing things when the world is silent. It’s a little warmer this morning but the wind puffs and reminds me that it’s still cold. The crescent moon hangs in the southern sky.
At one point in my walk, the thunder of distant sirens wailed for a bit. It was a strained metaphor for the wild and uncertain world spanning out around me. Beauty and horror are constant companions.
We’re all visitors here, no matter where we call home. Just because we have decades to call a place our home, it doesn’t conceal or deny the fact that impermanency is our master. Yet we keep arguing and fighting, as if our efforts are more than personally significant milestones.
I can’t walk around deserted towns without being introspective. It feels like there’s an elusive revelation just around the corner each time I do it.
I don’t know what called me to walk along the back spur of the trail. I haven’t been near there in weeks due to the drought and the low creek.
To the right of the path, I saw what initially looked to be a barrel. As I neared it, I realized it was an antique trunk. The lid was carelessly thrown open and a couple of drawers sat haphazardly on top of the trunk’s opening.
Slightly uphill and to the right were the remnants of someone’s memories. Photos, cards, tickets for rock music venues from the 1970s, and personal keepsakes.
Someone had to have taken great effort to get the trunk out there amidst the trees.
I have a lot of questions about how the trunk got there, and of the stranger whose belongings are still carelessly staged and thrown out for display to those adventurous enough to walk through.
Of course I can’t resist the call to do my thing and find out about the woman whose storage trunk of memories are discarded out here.
I’m glad I listened to the call that prompted me to go out among the trees.
But I am also a little disheartened to have found someone’s trunk of memories out here.
I’ve shared stories about the relative unsafety of crosswalks. Especially ones at the bottom of a hill. I routinely see people going more than twice the speed limit. Earlier, I opted to use the crosswalk.
A bit of trivia that most people don’t know is that crosswalks are so named because you need to make a sign of the cross prior to attempting to engage one. I’m pretty fearless with crosswalks. It’s ridiculous to worry about being run over when physics clearly teaches us that it’s way more likely to be run under and thrown over the hood of the car.
I had more than enough time to cross before causing traffic to slow on their way to purchase more knickknacks for their bathroom. Or whatever insanely hurried people seem to be doing. I did a pirouette and waved my arms as I started across. Of course I jogged across. The driver must have been going 60 or 70 because even though I made it across the road in plenty of time, he blared the horn. Without looking back, I lifted my right arm and gave him the opportunity to inspect one of my straightened fingers. I won’t mention the name of the company emblazoned on the side of the car. He must have immediately put down his driver window because I heard him either shouting gibberish or management jargon. They are indistinguishable, after all.
I only mention this anecdote because a few minutes ago when I left the apartment, I looked in my rearview mirror to see that someone was going at least 70 down Gregg. I was waiting to make a left turn. Needing to turn must have offended that driver as he flew down the road. He blared his horn non-stop and miraculously avoided rear-ending me. No pun intended. He swerved to my right and then decided to be clever and swerve back into the left lane. Only to discover that the car in front of me was now only about 70 ft in front. I’m pretty sure everyone clenched in anticipation of the inevitable crash as he hit the brakes as hard as he could. How he got the car slowed enough to avoid hitting the car in front of me is a question for the muses. Though I was still full of adrenaline from almost being rear-ended, I had the presence of mind to lay on my horn and laugh as I made a left turn.
Too many people in a hurry to meet Jesus. I’m fine with them being in a hurry to meet him. I’d rather them not take me with them just yet.
