A Soft Friday Evening Whir

"Are your windows open?" sales manager Laura LoVecchio asked today.

"No, but they should be, I know."

"It's beautiful out."

Indeed, today may be the loveliest day New York City has seen this summer. The color of the sky, a pale blue, reminds me of the sky above Healdsburg. The touch of the air, so perfectly cool, reminds me of the air in San Francisco. And I've just now opened my window. The sound of 38th Street, a soft Friday evening whir, reminds me of the sound of the ocean in Carmel.

I'll go home tonight, sit on my orange couch, and look into the empty space once occupied by the Ayre gear, wondering what will come next. For now, I'll enjoy the quiet.

Tomorrow morning, perhaps I'll sit in my kitchen with a cup of coffee and a piece of this delicious rhubarb coffee cake that sales manager Christina Yuin brought into the office. And I'll think about writing our "Recommended Components" blurbs.

I like to think about it a lot, you see, before I actually do it. Such is my intellectual way. Also, in an effort to think clearly, I'll have to accomplish everything else I can possibly imagine before actually getting around to writing "Recommended Components." These things include, but are not limited to: making my bed, cleaning the bathroom, painting a portrait, composing a song, doing the laundry, writing some checks, taking a walk, doing a few push-ups, calling some old friends, shaving, etcetera. A writer needs clarity, after all.

Oh, and a haircut. A writer needs to get a haircut.

Only after all else is tended to will I feel free to create. By that time, however, I will want to go to sleep.

On Monday, when I'm back in the office, and Elizabeth wants to know how much I've accomplished — reminding me, (not so) gently, that our production schedule has changed and our deadlines have inched forward and that we really don't have any time to spare and who knows how we're going to handle it if things are late again and, god, I really need a haircut! — well, Monday's just too far away to worry about, isn't it?

Ah: life. What is this shit?


a business card

By the softest

names and numbers
are sent down

from the window's ledge
to the blue-gray floor

and I couldn't be more amazed.