June - From the Balcony

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 10^th 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]