Sunday, September 2, 2012

End of season

Sept. 2, 2012

I didn't wait to watch the cycle of the washing machines this morning, I just dumped the laundry in and ran, although last week, I got back after the cycle ended and found some indignant lady had complained to the manager that the machine was idle and he yanked my clothing out so she could use the machine.
Time ticks by so quickly it's hard to imagine September is here, and this weekend always marking some new beginning of some new adventure, I'll ill prepared to deal with.
I still listen to the music we recorded so many years ago in a now-long-defunct rock club in Cedar Grove, picturing all of the dance-sweated faces and the celebration of summer's end aglow in their eyes.
I need rituals of passage; and need to remember the faces of the past in order to know where I am now, even if it's only a weekly ritual of writing in my car as the laundry twists and turns, jeans and shirt in their own ritual of tangled limbs.
The Egyptian man at the paper store always greets me with "Coffee, cream, no sugar?" and then slides my copy of The New York Times into a bag and sends me on my way.
There is a kind of religiousness in this, and I would miss the ceremony if it didn't happen, the way I miss most rituals of my life, the way I miss most people who pass through it, regardless of for how long.
This being a longer weekend, I get to wander later, walking along the wide or narrow streets, recalling what it means to be there, often who I walked them with and why. It is a ritual, too, although full of strange spirits that are often troubling.
This is my end of the year -- between now and early October -- before the leaves change, when I reflect most of what the world means and what I can expect. I am always surprised by what happens, because I never expect what does.
I suppose that is a good thing.

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