The Quackroom

4 January 2007
5:30PM

I sit here now in my own secluded spot "as
the darkness of the city closes over me like canal water or the grave"
and I think of a lot things. I think of the past year, and its many
seasons, shades, and faces. I think of some people who, in my mind, are
reduced to blurry images in the mist of my memory. I think of a few who
remain clear and vivid. I think of old friends showing up then getting
off. I think of new friends coming in then leaving as well. I think of
myself arriving, then, well, returning home to see the rest of the
world. I think of roads, sandstorms, glasses, culminations, beginnings,
and more sunsets. I think of my disappointments, my anger, and my
wounds. I think of my triumphs, my joys, and my dreams. Then, I think
of people again — bad, good, worst — and of this year and what it has
for all of us who travel…

Finally, I think of a place, a poem, a twenty-peso bill, a lyricist, and a black-and-white TV…

It is time.

I move.

Who knows what the dusk hides from me.

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