Getting Some Steps In
I’m posting this a little later than I’d like, since I had committed to every Thursday. The idea for this came to me late, and I only started writing it out on Thursday evening.
I went for a walk the other day. I hadn’t been out at all for 8 or so hours, maybe more. I had spent the entire day staring at the old nightmare rectangle, morning to evening.
So I went for a walk. It had been raining - big bursts of rain, heavy drops all rushing down together at once, accompanied by close, loud, cracks of thunder and blinding flashes of light. Then it went silent, until a sparrow or two cheeped. A tentative sound in the storm’s wake. At least, this is what I imagine happened while I sat staring at that rectangle, pushing buttons, inside my dry, cool office.
It really had been raining though, sometime before I went for my walk. It had also been hot all day before the rain and instead of the rushing water, wind, and general storminess clearing that heat away, it just added a great lot of humidity to it. The air was intensely hot, thick, and smelled of green, of wet stone and hot, damp wood. When I stepped out into that heat the dry coolness of my clothes held out for a moment or two against the humid heat, before it gave out and everything started feeling damp and overwarm, clothes clinging to my skin.
I brought an umbrella on my walk, in case the rain returned, and stuffed it into my back pocket. It was compact enough, but a little heavy and I didn’t want my hands taken up by it as I walked. My belt had been feeling looser than it had in recent times, so the weight of the umbrella threatened to bring my pants down, slowly, with each step. I kept it there anyway.
The heat and humidity seemed to bother me less as I walked, even though I could feel sweat mingling with the damp permeating my clothes from the water heavy air. Preoccupied with the weather, it took me a while before I realized I was meandering. I hadn’t planned a route before I left the house and just went in the first direction I found myself going. As I came upon an opportunity to turn left or right I didn’t bother myself too much about choosing one or the other and just went wherever.
“Just getting some steps in,” I mumbled to myself as I walked.
Walking this way and that, I eventually came across a liquor store and was brightened by the prospect of a cold beer after getting home and having a cool shower. I went in and basked for a moment in the cool interior. I came away from the store with four cans of beer, and a slight spring in my step. The refrigerator level air conditioning of the beer section had offered a bit of relief from the heat.
Walking along with my jeans slipping a little, I took the umbrella out of my pocket and stuffed it in the bag with the beer. My jeans still threatened to fall down, but now they had a little less encouragement.
The liquor store A/C relief was short lived and before long I was back to feeling my clothes stick to my skin, so I picked up my pace just a little to make my way home a little faster.
I turned right down another street, and as I walked along, admiring flowers, trees and nodding to people strolling by with their dogs (or kids) I came across a “Little Library.” One of those kind of oversized bird houses on a post, with a plexiglass door instead of a bird hole. These little book repositories seemed to be on almost every side street. This one had some sort of endorsement. On it was affixed a small metal plate that said “Little Free Library.” Inside were a few books, and as I walked by I did a double take.
I was amazed to see that inside was a copy of Charles Bukowski’s Betting on the Muse. It was the same edition I had bought when it came out, in 1996, at the Sheridan College bookstore. So of course I took it. Thank you Little Free Library!
I had completely forgotten about the heat, humidity, my clothes sticking to my skin uncomfortably. Well, I hadn’t forgotten all that, rather they were just part a constellation of experiences occurring at the time, along with feeling more than a little pleased at finding something like an old friend. Bukowski was one of the reasons I started writing. His and Leonard Cohen’s poetry and stories were a big influence on me in the mid 90s.
“Just getting some steps in.” I chuckled at the thought. I walked the rest of the way home thinking about all the poetry I read and wrote over the years. Books and work that were lost to moves, clearouts, and fires. I also thought of all I will write. This chance rediscovery of an old influence, right at a time when I am reinvigorating a practice of writing.
I smiled as I walked up the stairs to my front door. I felt the heft of the bag of beer, book and umbrella, my clothes sticking to me with sweat and humidity, and my jeans slipping down, just a little.
“I need a new belt,” I thought.