The Masonic Temple sits like a three-tiered wedding cake of stone in front of
my apartment balcony. In the mornings, I take my cup of tea and go watch the
flock of birds that circle the top tier, chattering as they fly. Some days, a dragonfly
darts past. A helicopter whirs overhead. The two so similar in shape and hovering
ability. Which reminds me of the book of Revelation with John’s vision of the
locusts released onto the earth at the sound of the fifth angel’s trumpet. “And
the shapes of the locusts were like unto horses prepared unto battle; and on
their heads were as it were crowns like gold and their faces were as the faces
of men.” (Revelation 9:7) Not quite dragonflies. But some claim that he was
seeing a vision of the future filled to the war-brim with helicopters. Well,
you know, wars and rumors of wars. But why must we always envision the future
as a maelstrom of destruction? It seems like such a failing of imagination on
our part. 
The helicopter lands somewhere beyond those buildings there and the dragonfly
vanishes from sight. The flock of birds come back around. They have such simple
cares. They have no visions of fiery futures. And I don’t like apocalyptic stories.
I go make a second cup of tea.
Better to think of Rilke who said:
Then
we,
who
have known joy
only
as it escapes us,
rising
to the sky,
would
receive the
overwhelming
benediction
of
happiness descending
That’s a nicer thought. Of course, it’s taken rather out of context from the 10th Elegy and is the ending to an exploration on grief and other such hefty things. But it’s a hopeful ending the way I read it.
A leaf somersaults across the asphalt. I listen to the hum of the air
conditioning units from the Masonic Temple and the old hospital across the street.
This Texas summer is easing itself in gently with cool breezes and pleasant
afternoons, but still the air conditioners hum and hum, singing a different
song than the circling birds. Beyond the temple, I hear the sound of traffic. From
where I sit, I see the cars. I can tell when rush hour arrives and I sit where
I am, watching and listening to everything, thinking how lucky I am to be
working from this apartment, with this view, with this balcony.
A
strip of grass between the parking lot and the road provides the perfect place
for dog walkers to bring their dogs to do their daily business. There’s the big
white dog, the little dark dog with its feather duster tail, the husky with its
snow white legs, the black dog who turns to see if its owner is asking it to
run – she is. There’s the spindle-legged dog who brings two people with it to
walk.
If I
ever lost my own clocks, I could tell the time by when the staff who work
inside the temple (doing what doing what?) arrive in the morning, come outside
for their breaks, leave for lunch.
When
I’m not being the All-Seeing Eye, I sit in front of my computer and put my
imagination to work. There are no helicopters in the story I write. No locusts.
No dragonflies either. No war, but for the war of the internal. If there is
none of that, is there poetry? Is there joy ascending? Is there happiness, in
the end, descending? It’s too early to tell. A first draft is only a rough
thing. When I can’t bear sitting any longer pulling thoughts out of a recalcitrant
mind, I go absorb the heat outside and watch the cars fill the parking lot of
the Masonic Temple for some event or the other.
Then
I return to my work.
On
Saturday nights, there are fireworks. Some weekly finale to some show at a
place off to the west of me. From inside, I confuse them at first with thunder.
Pulled by the energy, I go out to watch the storm only to discover it’s no
storm. Leaning on the balcony railing, I turn my face toward the sound and the
flashing red and green of sparkling explosions like “Rockets’ red glare and
bombs bursting in air.” Or maybe that’s just my lack of imagination singing. Once
or twice, a firework soars high enough for me to see the top edge of its
star-explosion brilliance. Then it’s over.
I sit for a moment with the night sky and clouds.
There’s a faint star. The moon is hiding just out of sight. I can see it if I
peek around the corner of the building. Why can’t every day be June evening? I
think. The question is not my own, not my own original. It was the Swedish poet
Verner von Heidenstam’s question. And that makes me smile. For the poet, for
the memory of Sweden, and for the fact that it is actually a June evening.
Upon
this earth there is no lovelier place to live.
Never
have I felt as good as here.
I
have spent hours sitting on the terrace.
Why
can’t every day have a June evening?
It’s
so sad one has to die! *
Yet,
on this June evening, from the balcony, with von Heidenstam’s words feeling so
perfectly written for me, it doesn’t even seem that sad to have to die. Not when
there’s beauty and work and rest. Not in this moment of peace. For there’s no
war on the balcony, no apocalypse, only the sound of the crickets, the ever-present
noise of traffic, and the beautiful expectation that tomorrow morning, I can
bring my cup of tea out here and start all over again.
*[Translated
from Swedish by Pontus Kristensson 2012]
