Eight thirty five.
I fed the dog first this morning and then made my daily run to the market. A few lines from Dylan came to me on the street: “You’re invisible now / You have no secrets to conceal / How does it feel… like a rolling stone?” Nothing new really presented itself before I got to Maxwell Road. Just another cloudy day. In the store it was quite busy. Ahead of me at checkout stood a tall Black man who apparently wasn’t a regular customer. I thought Lisa could’ve treated him better. It reminds me of Bruce Hornsby a long time ago. He was shocked when his tune with jazz licks and lyrics about racism was a hit. Sometimes public opinion really is a surprise. It gives me a little hope for humanity, even in the darkest times… As I marched back home, I gazed east, straight down the road, marking the heavy traffic: a string of red taillights, car upon car. They were heading into the heart of the sunrise, except for the clouds. Near the end of Maxwell Road in that direction stands the Lutheran church. Probably I’ll attend this Sunday, just to belong someplace, and Lutherans are the closest to what I can accept. Though the dawn is tardy, somewhere in obscurity there is sunlight.