reception

It’s a Monday. Another Monday. Something of grace allowed me to wake up into it. Something of grace allowed me to walk in the mist from Ann’s place back to my car a few blocks away, hips, legs, knees, big and little toes, still showing up for the big dance. Brain remembering the way.

I got to thinking about Chrissie Hynde on the way to my car, and Karen Carpenter, the “Rainy Days and Mondays” thing. Both those women have, for a long time, been something of heroes for me, for different reasons. Karen always kind of banged up with her own stuff. I suppose Chrissie too. Me too.

Ann was pretty ill, under the weather, when I arrived in City Heights Friday, just me being there perked her up, laughing and caring a medicine of sorts. Plus I came with a Starbucks double almond milk latte, perhaps an agent of healing far beyond my wit and charm. Now, this morning, I’ve borrowed some of that ‘weather’ thing – throat, lungs, flippy head. Though the flippy head is pretty much in any weather, when I think about (and with) it.

Mostly I want to say this. An hour ago I pulled up to a light on El Cajon Boulevard on my way back to Golden Hill, listening to “West End Girls” with the Pet Shop Boys, and as I came to a stop I drifted into one of those places on the planet where radio reception kind of funks out, even FM. So I took my foot off the brake and slowed slightly forward and maybe two feet later I was back in the ambiance of high fidelity with a tune I like a lot. Do you remember that, mostly an AM thing I think? You come to a stop and it’s static messing with the music and you roll forward to a spot of clear reception, and, as if the day was then – and is today – filled with magic and, well, “It’s yesterday once more.”