Saturday, November 5, 2005
Day for NightIt's a day-for-night day today, dark and quiet and just a little bit
rainy. A plane just flew overhead and it sounded unbelievably loud
because the sound travels so quickly when the air is steady, and the
buffer of tree leaves is more than half-way lessened now that so many
have fallen to the ground. On my way back to my car this afternoon I
walked in a goldenrod tunnel, the trees above me and the ground below
me both the color of daylight, when I took a shortcut through Grant
Park. The city is becoming its sad gray of winter, my neighborhood its
own sad brown. The white trim around the front door across the street
appears whiter than usual because everything else is so dark. 2:32:12 PM | I went to a reading by the Neighborhood Writing Alliance, the organization I used to run, for the Chicago Humanities Festival downtown. I saw some of my old friends, writers I worked with for years and who I missed terribly when I was down in New Orleans. Charlie, who is one of the best poets I've ever known; Sharon, who is a poet and essayist and an adjunct college teacher constantly looking for work (we often share stories); and Virdajean, dear Virdajean, who saw me and said she would cook me greens as soon as the first frost hits because I'm looking too skinny and my eyes too sad. "Where's the sparkle in your eyes?" she asked me, and I told her about my last few months and then we hugged again. S is packing up and moving south. His base is to be closed up for the winter since it is at the foot of the Hindu Kush and already the wind is starting to rush through the mountains and push against their buildings and tents. He'll be working with marines again, this time just a handful of kilometers from the Pakistan border. The special forces base was smaller and safer and better equipped. I'd hoped he could stay but he can't. It is back to the same-old of the past year, more danger, less equipment, and working, again, with the less-experienced, embarrassingly young marines. S was a marine when he was their age and like them he thought he knew what he was doing. Now he knows better. Later I'll post a few pictures S sent me that show how Afghan bread is made. Ramadan is over, Eid is over. Afghanistan, too, is settling in for the dark days of winter. 
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Last update: 11/28/05; 5:34:56 PM .
