“Eleanor Rigby”, the Cold, a Red Apple

It was nine degrees this morning, a slight panic again about the long walk I had, the icy air, the sun that everyone pines for, today was an electric blade, my eyes could hardly see through the glare, the atomic light, actually walking in the frigid cold, bundled up head to toes, the long wide alpaca scarf you gave me keeping the frigid air from my nose, mouth and lungs.  Oh the icy air again!

When you are not afraid of air…. and your heart, brain and lungs are intact, feeling your blood cursing through you, then you are a walking miracle,  a little well oiled machine.  Legs moving back and forth like a little stupid soldier, marching marching on and on.  But, it feels  like heaven!

I am wearing lipstick, bordeaux red, looks bright and cheerful against the burgundy coat, black hat…..  I have to be very careful how I breathe with this paint on…. the alpaca scarf is fuzzy, soft,  has thousands of delicate wispy threads of blue, pink, gold and fuschia like a sunset,  and the threads are grazing my cheeks,  chin, top of nose and almost mouth, but I have it wrapped  around my neck in thick loose folds so that it is a few inches from my actual lips and I breathe the air that is warmed up in that little space between scarf and body.  Once the scarf accidently touched my painted lips and I stopped in the middle of the street, grabbed a kleenex and started rubbing the scarf in a Lady Macbeth  panic—– if you wear lipstick it is a cardinal cardinal sin to smudge your clothes, or to smudge your lipstick in any way,  at least not while going to work……or at work, or in a restaurant, or at the dentist, or at the doctors, or at a dinner party, or at lunch, or breakfast, or on a bus or on a train or in a taxi or at the grocery store, or at church getting communion.   When you wear lipstick it is often better to just stay home.

At the bus stop the sea of cars again,  the exhaust is sharper and more acrid in winter, in the icy cold, I try to wave it away with my hands and people in the cars  think I am swatting flies or mosquitos….

I see a red apple in the parking lot in front of me, shiny, red, with three or four large bites out of it, slightly brownish on the inside…..a squirrel or rabbit, probably not a rabbit, I have never seen a rabbit with an apple.  The rabbits don’t travel this far and they are probably all in my garden eating every last thing with a twig or stem or bud.  They ate the white lilac weeks ago, gnawed it to the ground. I went out one day and it was just gone.    They eat carrots so maybe they do eat apples….

A white SUV is stopped at the light in front of the bus stop blasting music so loud the whole street can hear it…… but it’s “Eleanor Rigby”….. Paul McCartney singing “All the lonely people, where do they all come from?”  I see a young father and son in the car both heads bent down, texting… the violins are streaming and McCartney is singing and my heart is in my mouth like it always was and always will be when I hear that song….It has been so many  years since I heard it and I thought about how young the Beatles were when they wrote it, how young we all were when we first heard it…

Ah, this human life, it’s a little like the tossed,  half gnawed apple on the ground, left by some hungry creature, but still so red, so shiny, so tempting, every last rotting bit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

About O

I live in a suburb of an American City. I write to try and understand myself and the world around me. I love nature, art, music, literature and beauty in all its forms. I think the world is crazy and many of us will soon go insane from living in this world. What I love almost more than anything is my garden. I love its trees its shrubs and its many flowers. I love the birds, their flying and singing and dancing movements in and out of the sky and garden. Their freedom. I could watch birds all day long, though sometimes they act horribly, and fight and squabble over the birdbath, seeds, and space just like people. As do other animals, and sometimes you wonder if anger, violence, greed and chaos, really has to be part of life, and why. I love to work in my garden. To get muddy and dirty, digging, weeding, mowing, pruning and deadheading. Then, I like to have a cool glass of white wine or red, or sometimes a Manhattan, and drink in hand, I walk around and look at the fruits of my labor. My blog is whennothingworks because for a long time nothing has worked. Friends, family, jobs, money, fame, houses, careers, lovers, things--- it all just doesn't work sometimes, or most of the time. The garden always works. Nature and its beauty always work. Whatever your garden is and wherever it is. My garden always gives peace, delight, calm, majesty, and beauty. And, in my garden, I can sit quietly and think, or just breathe, and somehow manage to survive the world.
This entry was posted in Bus Stop Stories, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to “Eleanor Rigby”, the Cold, a Red Apple

  1. ladycee says:

    I like the way you capture the sense of disappointment and promise of life in your final para.

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s