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WHAT TO MAKE OF IT

 

1

“Yesterday, after all my errands were done I found myself in the sweet spot of the day.  Where I live and how I live allows me this divvying up.   Los Angeles, where I live, is positioned in such a way as to guarantee a weather norm where sea, sun and envious clime maintain a well-keeled kilter – a kilter I call the sweet spot of the day: 3:30 in the afternoon.

 

The sun begins to curve away just enough to be taken for granted but is still present enough to have something to gloat about. And this day a breeze that, when it combines with those remaining filaments of light, the slantwise shadows on everything that that light creates and the glint of coming repose that can be divined in varying degrees in most every living being, then there is an odour of calm and an ardor of arguable accomplishment in the late afternoon air – regardless of whether really grand, fortuitous things were in fact succeeded or simply that for another spate of hours one has managed simply (though we know it’s not) to stay alive just that little bit longer.

 

Where once pagans feared the coming hours of darkness leading into black night and even the reappearance of the primordial sun was called into question, now our “happy hours” have substituted with the sustaining manmade glow of tavern lights to seal the day so that we might slide loose, slow or liquidy-split into night.

 

My day has no pillars, no audible clock ticks. It is like a ladder laying flat on its side with only ghost rungs separated by consecutive, randomly-achieved events: horizontal, useless anymore for reaching heights but repurposed – now just gaps of air spanning point A to point B and as many letters of our mad alphabet as I see fit following that, lain out in a finite stretch of measured distances in time. My day is, as they say, my own

 

Los Angeles is, or seems, like so many American cities, a city of utility. Not holding the nascent structure based primarily on culture that is found in Europe – Paris comes to mind, with its circuitous quarters

 

2

That was all there was, all my father wrote.  These few handfuls of words written, no scribed I should think it better described, on two folded sheets of crisp white paper – stationery I’d say: of heavy weight, durable, reliable and elegant. If all the things we possess in our lives in some manner or another share qualities inherent in ourselves then I should hope these four words aptly described my father. But I cannot be sure. I have never spent any significant time with him. I cannot be sure that my eyes ever actually beheld him or whether or not our eyes met in a presumably lopsided gaze between man and child even once.

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