Morning Magic

 
Let's try a little experiment. Set your alarm clock for an ungodly hour tomorrow morning, if you aren't already in the habit of doing so. If you groan or bristle at the thought of arising twenty or so minutes before the sun's first light, turn off Konan or the guy with glasses and the annoying gray tuft on his balding head, and go to bed early.

I live on acreage with (mostly) quiet neighbors and little nearby traffic, so this might work for me a little better than for you. However, while living in crowded southern California years ago, I had the same pleasant experience; if it can be done there, it can be done anywhere.

Now that you're awake, go outside. If it hasn't rained in the wee hours, dew will most likely cover nearly everything, and the air will be cool, so you might want to dress accordingly. Unless a cold front has crashed through and wiped out the desired atmospheric conditions, the air a few hundred feet above you will be markedly warmer than at the surface. (I'm taking the liberty of assuming a cloudless night with little or no air movement.) Assuming the aforementioned, an atmospheric inversion will be in place, and you will experience an interesting phenomenon.

Distant (up to a mile or so) noise is trapped under the inversion and will reflect off the cold-air/warm-air interface, returning to your ears quite loudly. This accounts for the interesting effect of sound waves carrying much farther than they do under typical daytime weather conditions, after the sun has warmed the ground and eroded the inversion. This ducting effect explains why a far-away moving vehicle sounds as if it is mere feet from you.

Welcome to Physics 101.

Now let's assume there is no traffic--perhaps it is a weekend or holiday morning, or you're lucky enough to live in a rural area. Perfect. You will find the quiet to be deafening, transcendental, and dare I use the word cosmic? Compared to the racket made by vehicles and noisy neighbors, the calm cannot be described.

Later, as the first hint of sunlight appears in the eastern sky, birds will awake and begin to chirp. If you're a coffee drinker as I am, the pleasant aroma will add to the effect as you sip your brew and feel its invigorating effects.

If you've followed my plan and not cheated by sneaking back to bed, you will greet the dawn with a euphoria that eclipses whatever benefit you might have had from watching the late-night clown shows, though modern technology has afforded you the luxury of recording their 11 o'clock antics, which I understand most people to do. In addition, you now have a whole day ahead of you.

Of course this all washes out if you're a night person as I used to be.
Perhaps I'm just getting older and am heeding the words of Ben Franklin.

 

A Long and Winding Road to Nowhere

 
It hurts when a childhood friend hits the pavement hard. It especially hurts when you can't do a thing to help him.

I'll call my friend "T."

I moved into a house next to T at the tender age of ten, way back in the late 1960s. He and his two brothers welcomed me into the neighborhood and showed me the ropes. What had been an empty house only hours earlier was now my home. And ten-year-old T was my newest friend.

I won't bore you with the mundanities of two boys growing up living next-door to each other--I'm sure you can fill in all the appropriate blanks.

T was a bright guy, and though we clashed on a variety of things, we managed to remain friends into the next decade and the one beyond that. But T was promiscuous in the area of, shall I say, chemical experimentation. (I remember seeing him smoke a joint and drink one of his father's beers when he was just twelve or thirteen.)

By the end of the 1970s, T was showing signs which alarmed me, profound changes in his personality. Owing to what he was putting into his body--substances that ran the gamut from alcohol to marijuana to LSD to hallucinogenic mushrooms to God knows what--I could only assume he was under the lasting influence of one drug or another. Throughout the 80s, he developed an irrational rage; by 1990, he was verbally lashing out at phantom adversaries of a grandiose nature.

Unbeknown to me, T had been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia in 1985. The news caught me off-guard, but it came as no surprise.

Now in his fifties, T is unable to hold a job or care for himself. He wanders the streets of Los Angeles, threatening people--some real, some conjured up from within his tortured mind--without provocation. As a result, he has bounced in and out of jail. Everyone seems to have a restraining order against him, or they're considering filing for one, and for good reason. Seldom capable of rational thought, he doesn't understand why people don't want him around.

T was rearrested this morning, and if the past is any indication, he'll be in LA County Jail for the next year. I don't know whether to be relieved or to cry for him. In the facility, at least he will have something resembling mental health care. Certainly he will have food and a place to sleep, and from what I understand, he will be with a group that is isolated from the true madness of a county jail, so he should be relatively safe.

Where this all began probably doesn't matter; surely it matters not an iota to his family and friends who care for him, and it means nothing to T. Taking his prescription anti-psychotic medication, something he vehemently denies needing due to recurring bouts of irrationality, might be his only hope.

Insulated from T by a thousand miles of interstate, I can neither help nor hinder his plight. But hope knows no boundaries, and I can hope that he is able to muster the presence of mind to take his medication and begin the long road back from his personal hell. At this point, little else awaits him but an open grave.

So I will hope from afar, and I will beseech the God of the universe, through prayer, that T might find his way back to peace of mind.
 

A Place to Think

Hello!

This is my first blog under this new identity. This blog is a place where I come to relax, to vent, to share what's on my mind, and to keep the literary juices flowing in my brain. It is essential to put a thousand words to a page each day, they tell me, and I find words to be more readily accessible when I succeed in following this simple rule.

The iron rails refer to a lonely stretch of railroad tracks where I walk each day. Weather permitting (wooden ties are dangerously slick when wet), the tracks are a place I go to purge my mind of the sludge of daily life. And of living in a deeply divided society which seems to pit otherwise decent people at each others' throats.

I long for a simpler time. The train tracks take me to that serene place, and I hope I can bring you there by way of this simple blog.