Noon Time Journaling

1233 hours — Sitting in direct sunshine, dry heat of middle day on my freckled back, I find myself quickly exhausted, a sign, perhaps from God Himself, telling me I’m getting old or am already there. I need to be moving, not seated, not at rest, if I’m to remain outside in this summer’s blast, but I also like to think of myself, bare foot in the freshly mown grass, recharging my astral batteries.

Hardly a sound can be heard, the buzzing bug, a singing bird, and even the raucous laughter of playing children are absent. Seems all have found a place to avoid this heat and the sun’s rays.

And now I return from my daydreaming, learning that I am not paying attention, as looking about, finding myself alone. Even my dogs are smarter than me, the superior being, having escaped to the air conditioned interior of our home, where I can picture each in my mind’s eye, them lay on the brown leather couch, tongues lolling limply from their toothy grins, panting, cooling.

But me, I’ll sit here until I begin to feel that subtle quake, the one that comes from somewhere deep inside me. I’ll pay attention to it, knowing it will grow into a stronger tremble that will tell me I need, that I must, go inside before I grow sick to my stomach and I begin to taste that bile-gas that slowly grows and rises in one’s throat, burning at my esophagus and touching my epiglottis without warning.

Maybe this is something peculiar only to my body, my non-astral body…

Such is a Sunday afternoon of sitting thinking, reciting unwritten prose to myself with the hope of remembering even a fragment of what is mentally stated later as I sit before my notebook. And there’s my quake.