I have developed the ability to distinguish the change in seasons but the subtle lighting changes I perceive in my neighborhood. I don't mean the early sunrise or late sunset. I mean how the sun actually lights the city.
In mid-winter, the early morning suns streams almost straight down the length of Sixth Street, bathing it, if it is very clear, in brilliant sunshine. In spring or summer, although the sun rises earlier, the lighting is completely different: the sun is blocked by the apartment buildings on Avenue A, so direct sunlight along the street doesn't happen until much later in the day. And noon is completely different.
I have been sensitive to nature as well, as much as one can living in the city. But I would swear that I sense an increased "chatter," among the birds, and that there are more birds, and more sounds of birds. But there's something else. It is nature itself, I think, at least, that's the only way I can put it into words. There appears to be, somewhere, more and more "activity," as if I were aware of the awakening of bugs, worms (do they hibernate?) and other living things. And the bushes and trees around Village View apartments. . . I don't know but there's something going on there. Are they greener? No, not perceptively. But something is happening.
There is a kind of tension--no, that's the wrong word-- but a kind of building up of energy (much better!) and kind of potential energy getting more and more potent. As if you take a deep breath before singing. Yes, that's it: it is as if the earth had taken a deep breath and was about to sing. It is quite interesting and beautiful.
All of this fills me with a great and profound hopelessness.
The potential of the earth, is a mirror the failed potential of my own life, forever to remain in the inhalation of breath, but never has it erupted into song. No, my song remains unsung, and likely always will be.
What could be sadder? A wasted song.
