It’s a rare November day. About 70 degrees, a sky as blue as it gets, all shades of leaves represented in the skyline. Liam’s settling in for his nap, Reese and Michael went to go see a movie, and here I am. I was reading The Great Gatsby (I am supposed to be reading another book, but I’m bent, bound and determined to finish this one first), listening to the restless traffic on Center Street, and enjoying this restful Sabbath.
And then, She-Who-Volunteers-For-A-Presidential-Campaign appeared. Roaring up to my curb in her newish navy-blue Audi wagon, she stared into my front window for several minutes before getting out and knocking on my door several times. No way – not on Sunday, lady. Call me old-fashioned, but come on – a girl can only take so much propaganda. She finally left. I grabbed the fistful of paper she left in my door, and threw it away. Back to Gatsby. I can’t wait til November 5th – I’ll probably be disappointed by the election results, but oh well. I’ve made it thus far. And I’ll get a three year break ’til we do it all over again. I’ll just breathe deeply these next two days.
To cleanse my political palate, here’s a quote from a collection of essays I love to read this time of year – Cold Snap as Yearning, by Robert Vivian:
“I am a temporary voyeur of the moving earth, rolling over it a few times a week, wondering each time at the subtle mysteries of where the land meets the sky, how they meet in changing juxtaposition, and how these work their wonder in fields. Then, sometimes, if I am lucky, I can get the whole feel of it, and I am sucker-punched by grandeur, by my mote-like presence in a world that is meant to knock me to my knees. It has become the difference between hearing and listening, singing and saying, watching and seeing. Its the hereafter in fields, waiting at the edge of every city and small town, beckoning you to lose yourself in contemplation of the land and sky and your brief sojourn between them, joined by the speed of memory.” (“Hereafter in Fields”)
And now, back to Nick, Jordan and the Roaring Twenties. I suppose I should have quoted Gatsby, since I mentioned I was reading it, but I really don’t want to right now.