Argent March To the Tulips!

Desaturated Color
"My Inside and Outside Don't Match"
"I Feel Really Frail, Weak... "
" ...and Close to Death Often"
"Yet, My Exterior Looks Healthy ..."
" ...Strong and Well"

The water’s slapping at the rocks along the seashore.  Two black crows are dropping single barnacles onto the black parking lot below me.  Once the shell cracks, their hungry beaks break into them and pull the contents out, stretching it like a rubber band. An airplane hums along with Sarah Vaughan.  As the plane’s engine gets louder a piano riff is heard from the background.  The candle flame keeps me company as does the electric baseboard heater that just clicked on and is making its spring-loaded clicky sounds.  All this is a comfort.

A man’s red all-weather jacket lights up the gray surface of the Seawalk.  Sarah Vaughan sings, “It’s just my luck to be in love with you” to the man’s back, as he takes slow strides forward, keeping his hands in his pockets, never straying from the carved granite curb of the walkway.

Where am I in my life?

The message at the yoga class is: do not be judgmental.  I concentrate on remembering this as I go along, feeding the inner critic cream puffs to keep its mouth full, so I don’t have to listen to its outbursts.  I keep the faultfinder noshing instead of gnawing at me.

Sometimes it’s okay to have cold arms, a clean kitchen, and time to watch the raindrops collect on the window glass while sunflower seeds roast in the oven.  I’ve put the French station on the radio hoping to hear some jazz.  A train is coming from the East.  It’s a very short one:  only eleven cars; some with well integrated graffiti striking their sides.

Mid-afternoon and the rain is tickling the sea; making the water laugh.  An orangey-red and white boat stands out; motoring by it looks like a running shoe.  A gray gull waves his wings up and down above the water shaking a heavy rain out of his feathers as he flies through an unexpected cloudburst.  The atmosphere is argent:  monochromatic.

The day seeps into night and into 2:30 a.m.

It’s pouring.

The sound of the rain.

The rain’s texture,

Its sticks of water

plummeting toward the ground.

I wake up and my color is back!

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets