Saturday, September 15, 2012

Late Night Blogging

It's late where I am, past midnight. If this were a radio broadcast, you'd be listening to instrumental music and a husky-voice DJ encouraging you to chill out, relax, and enjoy the latest from a group whose music could have been transcribed from a pulse and a magnetic field. So relax and let me tell you that kind of story.

Begin with rain, the threat of clouds and the promise of cooler weather and the gasp of a strong wind current that heralds the power going out. We're sitting in the dim square of the window, which is wavering between being visible and diffusing into the same pale grey as the rest of the room. The power outage won't outlast the cool air in the house.

When the house begins to hum and the fan to whir, the light is trying for brightness but can no longer quite reach the front windows. You notice the clearing sky but not the blank digital clock on the bookcase by the bed.

It's waking up close to 10 and not realizing it until you're pulling into the Panera's parking lot and shrieking that it's almost lunch time that reminds you the power went out and the clock reset itself. You stayed up to nurse a passing queasiness brought on by a plastic cup of queso and let the clock's irrational time stamp lull you into staying up half the night clinging to awareness and a sour stomach.

And then, of course, you're blogging after midnight, not really tired but definitely getting the munchies. There's leftover Tex-Mex in the fridge. Queso seems like a reduced risk if reheated.

Not that any of this happens to you. When the post gets to you, the moment has passed and the rhythm and sentiment is unsynched from experience. There is no tone, no husky DJ to explain why you're listening.

The song ends almost before you're aware of it. Despite listening to the station off and on when you're up late, you still don't understand the language of this particular type of composition. It fades away, one more layer of time and beat and pitch unlatched from the formal staves and flickering out past you, 30 seconds, an hour, 5 days in your wake.

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