between sun-day & moon-day

24/01/2011 § Leave a comment

In a world of daydreams and nightmares lay a shade of orange-ish blue.

I have seized the day and watch sunrises after long nights. Worked pre-dawn mornings and post-dusk nights and what I found was the balance comes from the fulcrum of the teeter-totter.

“Good morning, Brittany. What are you doing up so early?” I was asked by Ricardo, the doorman.

“I think I am just readjusting. Thanks for asking, though.”

Around the corner, half-a-step,

“Good morning, Gabriela. I will just take this pastry. How are you this morning?”

“Tired, very tired.”

“Why is that?”

“I work a lot. Monday to Saturday, seven-in-the-morning until nine-at-night. My boyfriend, he does the same but we get to spend Sundays together, which is nice.”

“That is very nice. You always need a day to sleep in and cuddle.”

She smiles.

Shifting from coffee-shop time to half-day, half-night and it wasn’t until the other night that my body forced me to realign.

“No, I don’t feel so well. I think I have a fever.”

“Yes, you are very hot. Are you sure you don’t want to go dancing? Do you need to eat something?”

“No, thank you, though. I think I need to go home.”

Taking the 29 across the city, wedging myself above the wheel-well, dizzy in the heated haze. My throat was aching and my eyes felt as though they were burnt from a fiery headache. I could not focus.

“Miss, where are you getting off?”

“Montevideo, please.”

“No, the stop is Parana.”

“No, Montevideo, please.”

“Are you ok? Get home safe.”

“Thank you so much.”

Confusion had congealed  and a thousand thoughts of what to eat, I walked around blocks, looking for onions and bouillon cubes, needing salt-watered sickness relief, something, any thing, every thing did not seem as it should, I wanted bed, my legs ached, they ached so bad, my head, my head, this hazy heat soaking my shirt, or was that my swimming suit, I should not have swam, I can barely swim, I can barely walk, where am I?

The only place that was open was Gourmet Empanadas and I ordered three.

“Senora, they are ready.”

“Senorita.”

He smiles.

Finding my way home, lit by over-head moonlight, I put music on and unraveled my package of mini-fried calzones, biting into over-indulgent cheese through grease-saturated crust, bringing back memories of Bitondo’s Pizzaria in Little Italy, picking through half of each, I put the package on the floor and buried my head into a pillow on the couch.

Shutting my eyes, yet wide awake for hours, I listened to the mixture of music coming from my computer. Nothing was singular. No one album. More like different shades from different times in my life. Otis Redding, Puccini, Arcade Fire, Radiohead, Tribe, Jay-Z, The Black Keys.

When I gathered my energy, I brushed my teeth and went to bed. For twelve hours I kicked the soaked through blanket to my feet only to wrap it around my chin again. The breeze from the window was unhelpful, working against each moment I did and did not need it. Why could it not just be pleasant and comfortable all the time? I thought.

Waking up in the morning I felt better. Much better. It was a miracle. What time was it?

It was noon and like a mechanical habit, I went back into the motions of what it was like to live in the half-day, half-night. The whole day, my stride slowed cadence. There was no stress or heart-palpitating anxiety about deadlines or startlines. Things will get done later, by moonlight.

Walking from the cinema (watched Somewhere, Sofia Coppola, I think Lizerton would like it,) and I noticed the vast beauty that night has to offer. During the sun-day, light over-saturates and burns the sight. During moon-day, light comes from sallow glows and antiqued bulbs of street-lamps. Walking across the park, everything was gorgeous. Kids were playing soccer in the park. The grass smelled sweet.

I remember just before leaving Toronto reading that they did a study on the effects of the moon on people. Sometimes we ignore it or curse it, usually because it is the marker of sleep deprivation, but I like it. It has always held its place as a moment of socializing, good cheer and merriment, people telling me stories of what it was like growing up in some place I didn’t.

My sister always told me I was ruled by the sun, but I think it’s because I liked sleeping outside under shady trees. But by night, oh by night. I feel alive.

I wonder how the world would turn if we scheduled everything later so that everyone could enjoy the light and night, the hazy space between?

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