Lent

I miss midnight after Mardi Gras, the hours everything shuts down.

I don't remember why I was out that night, the first time I ever saw it; in New England snow plows clear the streets after storms, in New Orleans they pushed beads to the sides of the roads, pulled from the trees what they could.

There's a clarity that comes when something is over, the initial quiet after the storm, before the real pain, the real work. The hours when you heave off what was, make room for what will be.

There are beads in the trees year round, though.
You can't ever clean everything away.

Global Warning As a Madeleine

It's like, 65 degrees out right now. All the bars along Wisconsin have their storefronts and doors open. That new place, Mason Inn? I guess they have live music sometimes. I usually only see them setting up, but tonight when I was walking Baylor by, someone was seriously getting his trombone on. The door was wide open, and the wind was blowing, and it was warm, and the bouncer smiled at me, and Bay looked back at me like 'yo, this seems cool', and all of a sudden I was 24 years old, walking him down Magazine at midnight, asking the door guy at Balcony to keep an eye on him while I ran in to buy Camel Lights out of the vending machine.

It lasted all of five seconds, but I almost started crying right there on the sidewalk.

Sometimes I can't remember why I'm not back yet.