All things arise, abide and pass.
Every morning I arise,
I note: The dust in the sunlight, the cat in the chair, the heat, the
clearness of vision that sometimes visits me mornings, the pain in my back,
my parents... now gone, but always just over my shoulder, my need to visit
I note: Steam, wet soap, the feeling of clean, that the garbage people
are just now picking up the trash... glass and cans by the sound of it.
I note: The MORNING. The Times. The rice as it steams, the OJ... did
he, or didn't he?, the dishes, that Song, the change... 75 cents for the
bus, the walk, sun streaming down, the bee on the wind, the pain of the
I note: People... everywhere, the flow, the ebb, the change in the
warmth as I near the city, the grass in the cracks becomes less and less,
the stops more and more, my stop, the pavement... stiff, but slightly greasy
from the garbage pickup, the cardboard, the rags, they move, the sleeping
I note: The static from the carpet, the rush to pass through the
revolving doors, stale tobacco, the urge to go around just once more, but...
I note: The chatter, the light switch, the hurried often sleepy hello,
the cool of the machine room, the whine... almost unheard, of the computers,
the greeting, the password, the world unfolds, the mail comes in, the
requests pass by my eyes, the chair is stiff, but warming to my back, the
application presents itself, the network managing slows, the work begins.
I note: What is needed, sculpt the bits into words, the words into
pictures, pictures into action, itch, and note the plant that has just
emerged from a nights sleep beneath my desk-lamp, it has whiteflies. I
I note: The response to my proposal, the calls come from almost
everywhere on the net, the support, the resistance, the stubborn
thoughtlessness, the hope, the call to lunch.
I note: Food, fast talk, the buzz of the lunch room, the Conversation,
suddenly all conversations, my thirst, my lack of change, the helpful cash
register person, her daughter's new son, just this morning. I abide.
I note: The meeting, the wrangling over details, the noise, the pause,
the silence, the resolution, the Hawk on the window-ledge, they nest
there, new... in the City... good hunting... those eyes.
I note: The CLOCK, others noting the clock, the dust motes flowing from
desk to desk, the acknowledgment of my proposal, of action, the promises,
the timetable, the check from the bookkeeper, her chill from the cooling
fans... the life of the machines, my coat... for her, she can get it back to
me when she is done.
I note: The evening shadows from the high buildings, the Hawk... quiet
now, he seems to have caught something, my bus... leaving, the chill, the
lack of my jacket, the van, stopping beside the bus stop, the people getting
out, the blankets, the nurse, the soup, the rags, they move... it's a child
newborn, with her mother, they seem bewildered by the helping hands, my bus
comes, the pavement seems less harsh, the van leaves... with the mother and
child, the traffic stops, then goes, ebb and flow.
I note: Many others, in the hallways, in doorways, in passing, soon the
van will come for them too, in time, so it said in my proposal, so we all
agreed upon, so long as the promises are kept, so long as I stay aware.
I note: The quiet, the itch, the stiffness in my back, the cool breeze,
the mat, the chair, my breathing, the fly, softness, light-stream, my
breathing, water dripping, the click on the window pane, the house settling,
I note: The covers, the warm shoulder, the wind through the
window-shades, my parents goodnight, the small lights often seen with your
eyes shut, my breathing.
Tim Maxwell August, 1995