Archive for September, 2011

Saturday Morning

“[We concentrate] not by blocking out the world, but by allowing it to exist.” -Natalie Goldberg

I am at my desk. My desk is really a black fold-away padded table I bought at Target for $30, with a fold-up chair to match. I am not sitting on that dark cherry wood chair with matching black padding, also $30. Instead, I am sitting at my desk in a different padded chair, this one an old rickety wooden one, tan in color, blue in padding, previously used, I assume, for sitting at a kitchen table. I do not own a kitchen table. I did, however, at one point live in a neighborhood with great alleys. Alleys that are the heart of the city of Chicago. Alleys that are rivers that (with the help of large men, usually brown) whisk away the discarded possessions of people moving. Possessions like a light brown kitchen table chair, padded in blue and spotted with white dried dots of paint. I helped with its whisking away, away and into my apartment.

I am at my desk, in my chair. The light outside is crawling from black to a steely blue. I cannot, in fact, see the light due to the building in close proximity to my window, but I can hear the sky making its infant steps toward day. Cars are waking up. The highway near by yawns out of its silence. At my desk, two candles—one peach, one white—flicker. This morning, they flash a Saturday morning flicker. At the wicks, bright nubs of blue reach into a cuddle of orange and yellow, basking in the knowledge that I will not blow them out after my morning activity of ten minutes of continuous writing has expired—which it did after the word “knowledge.” Instead, the three of us sit, two on the black makeshift desk, one in the alley-whisked chair, and we take our place, engage in our functions in this Saturday morning limitless writing.

And this is what Saturday morning has to say: the black coffee is strong, the roommates have hugged and smiled at each other, Fall has turned, and the leaves will soon loudly change color before they fall into the silence of a slowly descending winter.

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