29 November 2011

Sitting Beside The Tracks, Waiting. The Crickets Hum.

I'm here.  Not doing much, but I'm here.  Good thing I brought a hat.  The November sun hits low in the cool air, but it can still burn me.  I am waiting beside the tracks for the train whose number I do not know.  I suppose I'll sit here a spell and wait for the shadows to lengthen over the hill.  A tunnel bores through the hill like a wide-open vein.

Metaphorically, you understand.  The reality is that I am sitting on my couch.  Sundown was three hours ago.  the quiet in the house is just what I need.  I'm a little confused that it is warm enough that I have some windows open to catch the breeze.  Post-holiday fatigue has set in, it is a shade lonely here at Casa Del Gumbo.

But I am waiting.  That is no metaphor.

I accomplished a lot today.  I'll spare your the tedium of my Domestic God triumphs, let's just say a lot of ducks and a lot of rows now march behind me.  The two things I did NOT get done, however, weigh on my big noggin.  Here's what I did not get done:

1) Find a job.
2) Write something truly edifying.

It's funny, right now I cannot decide which pains me more.  I managed to get a resume out the door, but the 22 others behind it?  Nothing.  As to the writing, dear readers,  I'm in a pickle.  This is the longest drought I think I've ever had.  It has me worried.  It also makes me tired.

I have this recurring image in my head of popping a cork from a bottle to pour something, only nothing comes out.  Except a puff of air.  And the tang of desperation.  So, the glass remains empty in this most quiet of Novembers.

It's deep fall in the woods by the river.  I hear its murmurs, faint and silvery as they filter up through the barren trees.  The rail bed gravel is warm beneath my haunches, a welcome buffer against the slow cooling of the air.  The air itself is tinged with watery gold as the sun goes down.  The mineral tang of rock embraces the dusty grass aroma of the weeds on the embankment.  A soft, steady breath of cold air wafts from the mouth of the tunnel as I peer into the gathering darkness in the middle.  The rails, twin seams of polished silver leading to a mouth of gold at the far end of the tunnel.  I stare into the gold, eyes owlish with fatigue.

I place my hands on the burnished metal rail in front of me.  It trembles ever so faintly, but I cannot tell if a train is coming, or the earth is sighing.  I remove my hands, and wait.


  1. I don't think your writing needs to edify you all of the time. Live vicariously through the fact that it edifies me, him, her... All of us over here and out there, and further on down the line.

    And it is the season of Advent now, the time when we should wait with expectancy and anticipation. Expect. Anticipate. It is coming, my friend, it is coming.

  2. Psst... in case you didn't notice, while you were waiting you wrote something.

    everything thing in it's own time.

    but hurry up dammit... :)

  3. I watch the ducks behind you march along :)

    Pied Piper of Duck-land, you be.

  4. faith and patience edifies. waiting can be virtuous.

  5. You are still writing...more slowly, but beautiful nonetheless.

  6. If only...Your writing is...good. Good hardly justifies the words on the screen. If only you could get snatched up by a publisher and get these words out there. Because people would pay for them, oh yes we would.

    I'll keep the positive thoughts coming on the job front. There's got to be something out there, waiting.

  7. Sometimes the muses whisper to us, other times they scream but we cannot hear because we put our fingers in our ears.

    Sometimes the act of doing may seem monotonous, but it too has to be done in order for those monumental moments to occur.

    Wishing you the best in skill to achieve those two left on your traps list.

  8. Ride the rails and write the the book.

  9. Why are you waiting and saying that you cannot write anything, as I have said before, your eloquence while you are trying to write is better than most others. I have heard it said that a writer must write through their writer’s block, so my friend that is what I recommend to you.

  10. What Rene said.
    Also, hi there.


"Let your laws come undone
Don't suffer your crimes
Let the love in your heart take control..."

-'The Hair Song', by Black Mountain

Tell me what is in your heart...