Dyscombobulated Blues

The elevator opened and I stepped out onto the seventh floor of the parking garage. This top floor is actually on the roof and it's difficult to say what time it was. Usually it would have been 3 A.M. but we just set the clocks back so I guess it was 2 A.M. Either way the sky was dark and the air was extremely fresh. So fresh it made me stop. I stood there on the roof and allowed myself to bask in the freshness and the silence, but then I noticed there was a certain smoky fragrance as though a chimney were at work somewhere not so distant and there was the sound of traffic on wet pavement issuing forth from Auburn Way only seven floors down and a thousand feet to my right. Nostalgia enveloped me... something about this fragrance in the air... not that of Spring. And not that of wet muddy summers in New England. But the crisp fresh nostalgia of November... a romantic nostalgia. For some reason romance begins in November. But not this year. This year it's only the nostalgia of Novembers past. I look down at the pavement under my feet and it glistens with last night's rain. Glistens so brightly it makes my squinting eyes water. Will I text her today? Will I send her a message? It could say, "After the election maybe we'll begin talking again." But I won't. For six months she's not had my number. So that, instead of dying a little more with each moment she neglects me, there is a part of me that can fantasize she's trying desperately to reach me and she's wishing I would finally relent and call her. And I tell myself I won't send a message. Still I'm standing there my feet planted on the wet pavement staring into the bright reflection of the street lamps towering above me. And I know I will write this blog. I hear a far off train whistle and hope I won't forget to include that detail in my writing. I would begin writing as soon as I got to my car if only I'd brought my book bag. Usually it's sitting in my trunk with tons of books and comics and my memoirs. I could have begun recording these musings instantly, but the book bag was left at home. So when I start my car I turn off the stereo and all the way home I focus on this nostalgia so I'll remember what to write. I'll remember that denying myself the permission to contact her during this romantic season leaves me empty. There are superficial concerns that help me forget how alone I am. The election just two days away. Or the football games later this morning. Or my palpable disgust with my job. Or the varying degrees of success or failure associated with a seemingly endless parade of opportunities to flatter the pretty girls I encounter every day. Such things seem important until you're forced to stop and endure the waves of fresh air and silence and tear duct agitating brilliance of wet pavement at two and/or three o'clock in the morning. Then I'm reminded that I am lonely and hollow. And there is not the love of Christ to save me. No, that is not my lifeline. And I have no children to dedicate my life unto and to live through vicariously. No, there is still just me. Me to make happy or me to be sad. It occurs to me that I drank the night before. And I subscribe to the notion that alcohol is a depressant and so maybe these blues can be blamed on drink. And tomorrow I'll be fine. It helps to remember: such sentiments can and do pass. I'm not anywhere near the zenith of my contentment with life, but then too I'm safely several thousand leagues above the darkest chasms of my past. And yet this is not meant at all to be a feel good happy ending look on the bright side blog. It's a cautionary blog. If you have your Christ in your heart. Or if you have your family which means everything to you... then do not let go. Otherwise I fear daylight savings time shall never find quite enough daylight to save.