it's 4 a.m., but sleep is evading me. the rain that earlier this evening was besieging the city has now moved away. the only cars meandering through the neighborhood are police cars headed the wrong way on my one-way street (police here like to do that late at night--maybe in darkness they feel loosed of restrictions). the only sounds are those of my computer whirring and my fingers typing--my keyboard is aging with my constant word-smithing.
i'm reminded of a story in Calvino's Marcovaldo where Marcovaldo goes in search of a place to commune with nature in the night, in search of basically a place under the heavens in a city park. all night he is plagued by the city at night: young lovers talking on benches, workers taking advantage of the empty streets.
unlike him, the city is not bothering me with its clatter; rather, my mind itself is creating the noise, the sights. chaos is waiting in corners; pan is dancing among the bushes, and still nothing from pytho inspires me to the poetic. all i'm finding are these dull, laboring sentences.
i'm reminded of a story in Calvino's Marcovaldo where Marcovaldo goes in search of a place to commune with nature in the night, in search of basically a place under the heavens in a city park. all night he is plagued by the city at night: young lovers talking on benches, workers taking advantage of the empty streets.
unlike him, the city is not bothering me with its clatter; rather, my mind itself is creating the noise, the sights. chaos is waiting in corners; pan is dancing among the bushes, and still nothing from pytho inspires me to the poetic. all i'm finding are these dull, laboring sentences.
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