No cars no dogs
A culmination of things has resulted in my waking up at 4am and not being able to trick myself back to sleep. So, up I get to write it all down.
Every morning, give or take, I pick out an album, and share over on the social medias I peruse. My goal, aside from just sharing all the things I listen to, is to create a little space where anyone tripping across my table of offerings can escape the second-by-second assault of the doomscroll. It’s normally a fun, effortless thing I enjoy doing. Lately, that’s shifted. I find myself struggling not only to choose a record (I’m leaning heavily on alphabetical order right now), but to find the joy in the sharing. I feel I should be doing more, helping to amplify things that need attention, sharing links to get people involved in community action. Some of this comes from the guilt of not being able to do more, and some of it comes from the cynical thought questioning the point of frivolousness in the era of so much destruction/deconstruction. What once felt like an easy balancing act has now become me on the one end of a teeter-totter, on the other, a boulder.
A world in chaos has my guts in knots on a regular basis. So much so that I’ve stopped noticing. I marvel at people who can engage with the evil circus going on to the south of this country, or the loudmouth minority who has usurped the normally starched, fake cowboy status quo of Canadian politics. I am surprised daily at the ability of certain powers and their barnacle-like ability to hang on, greedy for power. I worry about all the workers doing the difficult feet-to-the-ground part, taking on the barnacle and the boat she’s sticking to. I am angry for our Trans community who did nothing but exist in a more visible way, thanks to social media and platforms that give them a long overdue voice in this fucked up world. I worry about the people who gather for shelter in the covered parking lot next to the shop where I work only to have a couple police cruisers show up to throw their weight around and make them move along…to another alcove or covered parking lot. Then I get angry at that whole scene which wouldn’t have to happen if this verkakte world could get its priorities straight and start funding housing and shelters and eased up on the Batmobiles for the thick-necked militia we have going on.
For a while, I’ve been sleeping more than I usually do. I’m not sleep deprived by any stretch of the imagination, but I can run on 5 or 6 hours quite easily. I hadn’t noticed, but that extended to 8 or 9 (with that special 2 am pee break - no liquids after 8, Old Gregg). That extension has apparently ended due to the trial period running out, and I’m back to 5 or 6. As much as I want to reapply, especially after waking up in the emotional cramp I was in this morning, I’m sitting here in the near dark, writing line by line, album side running out, the click of the needle arm returning to its resting place. It’s totally quiet, save the hum of the fridge. No cars. No dogs in the dog park down below. Not even a siren. Silence.
As I write this, the tension in my hands is fading, and my mind is realigning. I think I just had to get up a little earlier to remind myself that I need a little space and quiet in order to just ….have space and be quiet. The balm of the season. You can hear the hunkering down as the temperature drops. The tension of summer is maybe leading to the focus of autumn and winter? I won’t forecast the tone of the proverbial room. I do know that I’m feeling it a little more in the past 30 minutes it has taken to ramble my way to this point. I suppose the moral of this story is ‘remember to find a space to be still.’ Or your ass will drag you out of bed at 4am.
I put on an album, I took a few pictures of my view (the river valley photo I’ve included is from about 415 this morning). I write to you.
And with that, a siren. Onwards.