it turned out that sunday morning was different from saturday’s dawning hour: it was colder, for one, a cold filled with the smell of the ocean, the kind of cold that ran up his legs & underneath his cargo shorts & past his waist, winding its way through fabric & body hair & nipples & became a scarf of cold air around his neck, the top of his ears red from the lack of a hat to cover them, the baseball cap insufficient against the invasion. the other difference, noticeable right away, was that the clouds formed a thin layer of vapor just atop the horizon line, being pulled up by the clear sky above them, a scrim at the back of the stage with the sun golden, refracting pink & orange in their moisture.
“see, there is a difference,” he thought as a jet left a vapor trail as it arrowed its way to the line of mountains in the far distance that ringed the valley below his vantage point, “a difference between mornings, after all.” but then his mind wandered away from the sunrise & the cold & he started thinking of lists of philosophers (of which he knew nothing but their names, which may be a true or false statement, you decide,) kant, schopenhauer, wittgenstein, nietzsche, sartre, (& of course, he thought “who else, who else?”), & because he was barely on speaking terms with any of these men (where are the women?) he thought of a list of authors, a recommended reading list & that perhaps this list was more philosophical: lawrence durrell, “the alexandria quartet”; d.h. lawrence, “the rainbow,” “women in love” & “sons & lovers”; edith wharton, “the house of mirth”; albert camus, “l’étranger”; the thomases, hardy & mann, “jude the obscure,” “death in venice”; & then the list devolved into characters, mme. bovary, anna karenina, mrs. dalloway, daisy miller; he bemoaned the fact that his forays into eastern literature only went as far as yukio mishima, but as long as he was in the 20th century, he should mention edmund white’s “the farewell symphony” as his ur-text of the state of homosexuality post-stonewall, but that is a digression from gordimer (nadine,) rushdie (salman,) & marquez (gabriel garcia).
tomorrow is tuesday, he knows that, but he does not know what tuesday will bring, although he has been known to draw on his psychic abilities but rarely to predict the immediate future, it has always been a sense of what will happen & not so much as to whom it will happen (an electrical current that circles in on itself, as they are wont to do.) he does project that the chapters may become shorter as time chips away at his sundial & tugs at his shirttail (is that two metaphors or a mixed one? & why can’t there be more than one metaphor in a sentence, if, as is apparent to even you, dear reader, that this, this text, is a bit of a run-on sentence, streaming his consciousness. but is it running from or running to?