We are all just trying to survive the tension of these long days...
Noticing the little things days before our recent elections. Reminded of 1968, the tension and fear and agony.
The sun, brighter than usual for this time of year, blasts through the white Levolor's (I used to call them “Venetian blinds”).
Outside the window a sparrow zips across the blue white sky —
It’s a sunny day, windless; I hear the sound of a small airplane overhead annoying as an overgrown mosquito.
I know that somewhere else under this same sky there is water, the noise of children, beasts, machinery, a widow —
And under another roof, somewhere, horrific shit going on and on somebody’s floor are dirty socks, a loaded shotgun, a broken remote control and a small round table with a glass top.
Someone is sitting alone on a couch wondering if things will get better or worse —
Although that person’s never heard of “Venetian blinds,” He has them too. He is too far away to hear the airplane over my house.
So all his shit is unrelated and, of course, it’s equally true that all of it is inviolably connected as the sun pours in through our windows and prints horizontal patterns of dark lines and bright light on both our walls.
I step into my study and in the middle of the floor is a bullet.
I pick it up — it’s sticky, probably from the masking tape holder I made a few years ago to carry extra slugs for my little .22 derringer that I don’t even have any longer.
This bullet lay on the white Berber carpet like a peanut shell or a scrap of gum wrapper or some other tiny refuse from the world of thrown away and discarded things
ONLY . . .
It is a bullet!
How did it get here?
Who’s been in my room?
Why would this little death-teaser be laid out at my feet as I walk through the door?
This bullet asks questions and, of course, sometimes it answers them.
But not, thank goodness, today, eight days before the 2020 POTUS election and 52 years after the last election as important as this one.