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The Rapt Thing to Do
The sky’s as blue-and-white as an ’87 GT Performer. But soon all escalating clouds get their adornments of pink-tinged ruffles as they decide to stick around, moseying, hydrangea-bunched, clipped you might say, or waddling off to more outrageous pastures. I think of glare and glint, specks of sun skipping from window glass, blinding me as I squint my gaze down to a manageable strip of sight. The raking cornice of an Italianate three-story home protrudes, stripped dentils all spiffy and slick as they toss shade on dour, doe-eyed bay windows. Life is reasonable at best. A mordant turn of thought. A gauge of the needless inventions being thrust upon the world: 99% complete garbage, to be forgotten except as brief footnotes in the information-overloaded barrage. Only a few will remain and endure for the long haul. I am here just to be here. There is no other way.
Tennessee Williams died at the age of 71 after he choked on an eye-drop bottle cap in his room at the Hotel Elysee in New York.
Caroline came along with a message. It’s in the mail now, but here it goes anyway: “On the ramp over the Broadway Tunnel on Hyde is a great place to watch the sunset from. Silhouettes of steeples, the sky changing its colors…somebody might call it gorgeous if they still could. But, hey! Let me tell you something, here. The least you could possibly do after having the time of your life with someone one…
