Music of the days of the week

Finally, we are in Indian summer.

The moon tonight was a misty crescent sliver and I listened to the slick whoosh of traffic on a rare evening walk. Then kids and parents cheering, screaming and laughing at school ballfields, the "poom!" of foot hitting soccer ball, owl who-whoing and me enjoying being alone with my thoughts, emptying my brain of the day's tension.

Walking down Mayfair at the end of the walk, dusk descending and the traffic noise gone was as good as taking a very deep breath, closing eyes and just leaning back.

This week, half over, has been a good one for recording sights and sounds.

Monday, I experienced the doctor's office shuffle. I sat, slightly dozing, in the waiting room. Office in a new building with lovely light and view. All patients spoke to the receptionist in quiet tones, she responding cheerfully.

What impressed on my brain was the shuffling kind of sound feet make at the doctor's office. No one moves fast, no one has the expectation of speed or efficiency (tho my doctor's practice is a model for both) and so the rather forlorn attitude of supplicants, hoping for attention sooner rather than later. All conversation, with the exception of the banter among the office staff in their fortress, is muted.

Tuesday, early, I turned off the beeping alarm, pulled on a bathrobe and began the morning's light chores. Pick up paper, turn on coffee, fill pets' dishes. Get ready to walk the greyhounds.

I had just gotten up and was peering outside from the front door to scope out the newspaper's location on the driveway. A house sparrow perched on the railing around the front stoop, chirping away in the grey morning. Twist heard it, too, ears perched forward, nose close to the window.

The little bird chittered away for a few seconds, then flitted off. In the grey morning, it sounded so clear, so sweet.

I like those moments, especially to start the day. They are like anchors. When you feel as if you are flailing in the demands of the moment, it is lovely to have a calming place to check in to.

Flat butt day

Today was a flat butt day.

What, inquiring minds may or may not wish to know, is a flat butt day? (Clever, perceptive minds may already have a clue.)

A flat butt day is a work day whose end finds your butt having been, for seven or eight hours, in near-continuous intimate contact with your desk chair, or other chairs your butt was required to kiss. Followed by a three-hour computer class. I believe the picture is clear here.

Not good for butt, body or soul.

I took the T home and walked the 1.3 miles home to move blood in my veins, air deep into my lungs and shake the overload from my brain.

I like the pleasant distraction of walking past the shops, peering into windows at bridal dresses, purses, fabric bolts, jewelry, purses, late evening coffee drinkers, garden pretties and people chatting in bars and restaurants. 

As I leave the business district, there is still the busy rush of traffic and white brightness of streetlights against the night sky.

Down a hill, I can hear the high school band practicing.

Pretty soon, I'm striding down my street and the night gets quiet. There is a stray sound of piano being practiced, a dog barking, the sound of my own feet, encased in thick tennis shoes, thudding softly against asphalt.

Finally, a deep breath.

Home.

Owl, again

My neighbor Masha, a young native of Ukraine, met up with me a the 36A stop from Downtown to Mt. Lebanon late this afternoon.

She had been off for a few weeks for a trip to Paris with her husband and then on to Ukraine to visit her parents. We talked about her trip, (her first time to Paris and she adored it) and other things, including whether I had any book recommendations.

Sadly, having checked out Jayne Anne Phillips' "Lark and Termite," I could only report that I had started it a couple times and had been unable to finish. Not for lack of interest, but for lack of time. I returned it, overdue. I hope to get back to it someday.

When I am bereft of meaty reading material, and bereft of time, I return to old favorites that do not require a lot of concentration.

My "Peanuts" collection is a great source of non heavy-duty-brain-cell-sucking-energy-before-bedtime-reading-if-I-don't-have-anything-else-going-on reading. I love Charlie Brown!

I like to retreat, too, to old favorites. This week I have been re-reading "Owl," by William Service. It is a lovely story of a small wild creature, never a human pet, living its life within a human family.

I like it, in part, because I have been listening to the Owl(s) in the park by our house. Two weeks ago, at 3 a.m., I woke up (being past 50, that happens a lot). In fact, an owl woke me up, Who-Who-Who-Who-Who-ing. I crawled out of bed, poured some milk or wine, crawled back in and just listened for about a half hour in deep night.

Tonight, at dusk, the dogs and I went out for our evening walk. As we strolled in the gathering gray, Owl hooted and I spotted him, high up in the park canopy, a dark, distinctive shape in the fading light.

He hooted, his horned head bobbing forward and back, forward and back.

We stood below, me (at least) very attentive. He saw us; the tilt of that horned head changed and then wings extended and he flapped, slowly, away.

As we walked up the street out of the park, I listed to his call, and not much further away in the park soccer field, the hooting of parents cheering on their kids with calls of "good game."

And all the while in the background, the crickets chirred, really softly, marking the end of the season.

Life and art

Art.

You know it when you see it. You could "do" it too, if all it meant was splashing paint on a canvas that you called "untitled number 12."

Hard to teach. In fact, not teachable. It's only possible to send the artists down a path, or suggest one to them.

Life, experience, practice, repetition, experience (again) define the rest.

So, now that I am in art school classes for Web Design, I am at the beginning of art with people who could be my grandchildren.

After a long day (of noncreative activity) at work, another three hours of crowded class, here is my definition of art.

Sitting on the front porch. Watching the trees, black silhouettes against a deep grey sky. Listening to the sounds of the night. Crickets. A wind bringing rain. Breathing in and remembering that I have the control and the power (both such wrong words) to make my day(s) more creative and less reactive.

The trick is to remember that it is you, not the job, that, who, has value.