Monday
Nov032008
Standing in front of my house like a doofus again
Monday, November 3, 2008 at 05:39PM
I saw another play tonight--well, a collection of monologues, not exactly a play--called Eating Around the Bruise at Annex Theatre. The monologues are sweet and competently delivered, but they were all more or less about what's wrong with the world in general and this country in particular, and I left the theatre having re-awakened the knot of anxiety in my stomach that I thought I had conquered with my inspiring meeting with a new collaborator this morning. The last line delivered from the stage tonight was "Don't screw up." Jesus.
So I drove toward home fast through the rainy dark, not sure what I'd do when I got here. But--turning up the steep, windy (that's whine-dee, like winding around something, not win-dee like the weather pattern, though that was also the case), almost-my-street-but-not-quite, there was a big gust of wind (weather this time), and the air was suddenly full of huge yellow wet leaves, showering thickly down onto my windshield and my hood. Oh beauty! And when I parked at home, and stepped out of my car, another damp gust came, carrying rain right into my too-light jacket and making me close the car door fast and giggle out loud.
My yard has been transformed. There's a huge tree arching over all the front lawn that has been bleeding gold for about two weeks, carpeting the entire front yard in gushy bright yellow leaves. Leaving my house when it's light out is like walking onto a sun; it's brighter below than above, and oh! So bright that is! Warm and homey and sorry-I'm-leaving-but-I-can't-wait-till-I-get-home-again beautiful.
So it's cold and rainy and I'm not dressed right, surprise surprise, and I start walking toward my front door but another gust of wind makes me stop and turn. And I see that nearly my whole street has turned gold. There's still some green foliage, but everything, cars, houses, the street, the bushes, everything is coated in this dusky downpour. And I walked to the edge of the street in front of my house and stood there, looking like an idiot, or maybe just like I was waiting for someone to come pick me up, peering down my street at those isolated pools of streetlight and the dance, I mean the DANCE, the motherfucking grand ball of the century, of leaves twirling down in the wind and the rain. The big ones, bigger than my hand, come down slow in big lazy spirals; the medium ones in tighter, dizzier spirals; and the fifty-cent piece size come barreling straight down and spinning like a top, no end to them, like a multidimensional tetris game, just a snow of precious metal coming down. And few enough cars drive on my street that the asphalt is gold with them and looks soft, too, like I could lie down in the rain and roll around and be safe and warm, lit from the inside by the flame on the ground, the second sun, shining even at night, radiating in the sparse streetlight.
It was revelation time, I mean I'm tired of being stressed out and feeling guilty about spending money or not spending enough time productively or this or that, I live in this beautiful world and the best possible use of my time is to stand there gaping at it like an idiot, getting wet and shivering. I was so excited I called Silas, who I owed a call to, and left him a breathless voicemail about it, and then I called Mike, who happened at that moment to be freezing, walking to dinner up the Ave without a coat in the rain where it was just as cold but not beautiful. And he couldn't hear me properly walking in the street so he ducked away from the wind somewhere cold while I gasped and went on about how pretty it was on my street, and he listened patiently and shivered until I finished, and then excused himself so he could get out of the cold and get where he was going, and I felt sort of apologetic for demanding he listen to my experience of beauty. I think I got so wrapped up in my "experience" that I forgot to just keep looking. I think maybe it would have been better if I had kept it just for me. Or maybe written it down for someone to read at their leisure, or for me to read later. Which I'm doing now.
With awe and chagrin and love,
Alissa
So I drove toward home fast through the rainy dark, not sure what I'd do when I got here. But--turning up the steep, windy (that's whine-dee, like winding around something, not win-dee like the weather pattern, though that was also the case), almost-my-street-but-not-quite, there was a big gust of wind (weather this time), and the air was suddenly full of huge yellow wet leaves, showering thickly down onto my windshield and my hood. Oh beauty! And when I parked at home, and stepped out of my car, another damp gust came, carrying rain right into my too-light jacket and making me close the car door fast and giggle out loud.
My yard has been transformed. There's a huge tree arching over all the front lawn that has been bleeding gold for about two weeks, carpeting the entire front yard in gushy bright yellow leaves. Leaving my house when it's light out is like walking onto a sun; it's brighter below than above, and oh! So bright that is! Warm and homey and sorry-I'm-leaving-but-I-can't-wait-till-I-get-home-again beautiful.
So it's cold and rainy and I'm not dressed right, surprise surprise, and I start walking toward my front door but another gust of wind makes me stop and turn. And I see that nearly my whole street has turned gold. There's still some green foliage, but everything, cars, houses, the street, the bushes, everything is coated in this dusky downpour. And I walked to the edge of the street in front of my house and stood there, looking like an idiot, or maybe just like I was waiting for someone to come pick me up, peering down my street at those isolated pools of streetlight and the dance, I mean the DANCE, the motherfucking grand ball of the century, of leaves twirling down in the wind and the rain. The big ones, bigger than my hand, come down slow in big lazy spirals; the medium ones in tighter, dizzier spirals; and the fifty-cent piece size come barreling straight down and spinning like a top, no end to them, like a multidimensional tetris game, just a snow of precious metal coming down. And few enough cars drive on my street that the asphalt is gold with them and looks soft, too, like I could lie down in the rain and roll around and be safe and warm, lit from the inside by the flame on the ground, the second sun, shining even at night, radiating in the sparse streetlight.
It was revelation time, I mean I'm tired of being stressed out and feeling guilty about spending money or not spending enough time productively or this or that, I live in this beautiful world and the best possible use of my time is to stand there gaping at it like an idiot, getting wet and shivering. I was so excited I called Silas, who I owed a call to, and left him a breathless voicemail about it, and then I called Mike, who happened at that moment to be freezing, walking to dinner up the Ave without a coat in the rain where it was just as cold but not beautiful. And he couldn't hear me properly walking in the street so he ducked away from the wind somewhere cold while I gasped and went on about how pretty it was on my street, and he listened patiently and shivered until I finished, and then excused himself so he could get out of the cold and get where he was going, and I felt sort of apologetic for demanding he listen to my experience of beauty. I think I got so wrapped up in my "experience" that I forgot to just keep looking. I think maybe it would have been better if I had kept it just for me. Or maybe written it down for someone to read at their leisure, or for me to read later. Which I'm doing now.
With awe and chagrin and love,
Alissa
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