The day, for me, has been a bit lost. Saturdays are broken up with therapy at 11:30. The subways are funky on the weekends, so I need to leave a bit more than an hour to get up to the Upper East side. As time goes on, I will probably head up to the Met for some art since I am out and the in the city anyway after the session, but tonight is Richard Thompson at Carnegie ... not until 10:00 pm ... and I might just drop by a poetry reading at the Bowery Poetry Club. I came home so that I would neither be rushed nor overly tired.
I am finding that the late afternoon/early evening is a strange, and somewhat/sometimes delicious time of day. As I was talking to K today, I observed that perhaps late afternoon/evening is the most intimate time of the day. The great majority of people head home, either to stay home or get a respite before another foray into the wider world. Families get together for a head count, a recount of the day's events, and likely a meal. There is a communal pause then. Not as much rushing, anxiety, distraction, or the kinds of thoughts that go into getting started on the day. The light softens, inside and out. The hurly burly of life quiets.
The strange? Maybe it is more estranged. This is the time I feel most alone. Being single, that "gathering around the fire against the night" doesn't happen. And although I always think I am going to work or do something, I wind up napping, or playing solitaire, or eating something I would probably be better off without. I haven't been aware of feeling lonely, but maybe I do. Maybe I nap or eat for comfort. My feelings are more wistful or poignant than howling. More of a look into other lives and wonder how they put it all together.
And here's a first, ME(!) quoting a Carpenters' hit:
Talkin' to myself and feelin' old
Sometimes I'd like to quit
Nothing ever seems to fit
Hangin' around
Nothing to do but frown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down.
Here's Dave Alvin's song about Karen.
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