Kerouac inspired ruminations on a clear evening. Future book material.

Drawing my feet covered in days’ old wool socks up under the thick wool blanket, I let myself relax as I begin to thaw. Frowning slightly with the reminder that my gaunt frame is now filling out uncomfortably. I certainly don’t like this ‘construction biz’. The circulation in my hands is bad and they take longer and longer to warm up. I decide to place them dangerously close to the black stove that carries within it’s belly a dull rumbling beast angry at having been shut in to such a small prison. The light is fading quickly and looking up through the small skylight speckled with drops, I see the tops of the trees outside our small sanctuary, bare branches conversing with each other in quick staccatos while their brethren with browning leaves shake their heads sadly at each other. Winter is coming and this warm stone box is our refuge against the cold, but not yet against the dark. The artificial whiteness of the screen, the sole beacon of another world. How long has it been? Trading one ocean for another.

I’m lazily reclined but trying to be careful not to let my limp hand flirt too closely with the dark beast rumbling inches away. Tired of reading and annoyed at the shadow my head throws over the pages, I decide to put down Kerouac. Frustrated in that familiar way as with a friend who just never seems to learn, I decide to dream instead. Kerouac, Wilde, Haruki, James, Garcias. A rank I’d gladly join. For now, I’ll have to settle for whisps of greatness I pull from the depths of remembered dreams. And then flip open the dark lid, wait for it’s artificial white to stab my eyes and begin feebly to write my own greatness until I get sick of mediocrity and slam the screen in anticipated disappointment. The romanticism of the jasmine tea, growing cold and I begin to gulp instead of sip. No longer enchanted by the scent of fine literature.

Drawing back my hand from the stove and curling it like a small cat into the tuck of my elbow and laying my head down I can smell the peat on my fingers. I remind myself to cut my nails, it’s been weeks now and the tattooed look of dirt under the opaque crescents makes me smile at my own shuddering. And whom are you trying to keep them clean for? I ask myself aloud. Certainly not Brian. For me, I tell myself and remind myself not to forget to cut my nails. Which reminds me. I need to shave too. Ah, but I’m warm. Do I really need anything? I could keep my own company here (as long as I get the company of the stove). Taking the small pot off the stove top and refilling my mug lends some romanticism back to the evening. I pause to gaze at the yellow primrose on the side of this ancient mug. Looking like it’s first bloom under that glazy surface I wonder who sipped out of this mug last. It’s been 12 years at least. It was one of those relics dug out of the squalor and salvaged more out of practicality than it’s quaint existence, but now, on this clear evening, its aesthetic aura wafts out mingling with the scents of peat and jasmine in the heat of the stove’s arms. Perfectly romantic, did I need anything more? I can’t remember. It’s so warm.

Letting myself get tucked into my lounge chair by some crooner, the muffled cackles of the fire seem to sing along, or was that just Brian muttering under his breath? The twilight having ushered in the evening, silently dismissed itself with a low bow and stars showered the dark sky with silent applause. The clouds drifting like lumbering sentinels veiling the fathomless sky in mystery. But as my watch chimes 10, an excitement stirs. Dismayed at my own excitement and the impending end to this clear evening, I begrudgingly reach for my sliver of light: a glaring head lamp. Spraying its offensive light I allow my excitement to grow. Dinny will be playing the fiddle tonight. I musn’t be too late. I’ll have to force this evening down and bury it under several layers of clothes. Heading out the drive at a quick pace. Brian ambling behind.