Intervals on a Sunday Morn[1]

A hazy veil in shades of white hides the world outside my window although not all that effectively, perhaps it would be more accurate to say it looks at it through a monochromatic prism.  It’s not fog really, more like low lying clouds.  I assume fog is more like condensing vapor fleeing from cooler running waters although I’m not sure that they really need to be running.  We don’t really have very much running water nearby but we certainly have our share of low lying clouds.

It’s a strange day; quiet but tinged with expectancy.  That seems natural in Sundays; days that aren’t quite sure if they’re the first or last days of the week, only that they precede Mondays which makes them equivocal and ambivalent.  Sure, a day of rest, but … tomorrow the storm.

I’m a bit restless, waiting for something to happen, but I’ve been that way for  quite a while, a very long while, a good part of my life really.  The inchoate within seeking to break out, kind of like my sons when they’d call to me from the timeless fields of waiting, asking to be born.  The sun keeps threatening to break through; there’s nary a hint of rain despite the clouds; it’s kind of like the deepest slumber of the night right before the alarm clock prepares to perform its calling.

Something interesting somewhere lurks but interesting is a very equivocal concept; equally comfortable dressed in blacks or whites, perhaps in all the colors in between.  Interesting things are almost always impossible to stuff back from whence they come once they’ve arrived and as often as not, that’s what we want to do with them.

Waiting, that’s what it seems I’m doing, that’s what the day suggests; so; … back to the window then, expectantly waiting for who knows what: a ring at the door, the sound of the phone, perhaps a visit from someone special I’ve never known.