Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick . . .

#103 - The clock’s secondhand sounds in measured time, that devilish man-made concept that binds us in its measure to the past present and future. - Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick . . .

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          TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK . . . 

It is quiet outside. Maybe 4 am. - Maybe 3.  

There is no traffic hum echoing off the soundwalls from the distant freeway. All is still. It doesn’t stay that way for long.

The Amtrak 4:37 hasn’t whistled its way through the rural intersections along the Delta. No motorcycle cycles through its gears going to work or coming home from a late night.  

I remember that guy I saw in the pre-dawn hours at a gas station on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. A big guy, in tee shirt, jeans, and boots, on a big old Harley Hog at the pump ahead of me. He filled up, saddled up, and blasted the night in a roar. He got on the Turnpike and cycled up, maxing out each gear. Like a banshee, he screamed up and over the far hill. The radio said it was 17 degrees out. 

No dogs are barking.  

Those sounds cut through the quiet and sound the same everywhere.  

If one didn’t know better, the world would seem to be at peace. It is but a respite. 

The heat from yesterday and last week has been draining.  

Before the sun rises, the air is cool. Just barely though. It won’t last.  

Where is our air-conditioning fog from the ocean that blows in on the surrounding hills? Where is the flag waving Delta breeze requiring long sleeves or a light jacket?  

We rarely get extreme temps summer or winter. It comes with living in our part of California. 

I can usually work the shade and windows around the house to gather the cooler air as the sun moves across the sky. Air conditioners were few and far between when our house was built. Only when the temperature reaches the upper 90s do we feel the heat.   

The wall heater does the job in winter. Only when it's down to freezing do we feel the cold. We put on another blanket. 

They say it is healthier than having central air.  

Maybe, but this week I wish we had central air conditioning. Especially at night. No relief - no clothes, no sheets, no sleep.  

Over a week of over 105-degree days started getting on my nerves. 

But not now. It feels like the heat is broken. Not over but having peaked. Somehow, that is comforting. 

What time is it? I click on my reading lamp, the clock on the wall says it’s 3:17. I click off the lamp. Too early to get up but if I don’t slip back into sleep soon, I will.  

Dark again, I stare wide-eyed, eyes unfocused. Through the ceiling, through the darkest sky of night into starry space, through universes of the cosmos, past heaven. What is that? It’s the back of my head! I stare, wide-eyed. 

The clock’s secondhand sounds in measured time, that devilish man-made concept that binds us in its measure to the past present and future. - Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick . . . 

It’s loud. I seldom hear it. How do I manage to tune that noise out most of the time? I'm here every night.  It doesn’t stop. - Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick . . . 

It’s the beat of a Cajun two-step. I can see Mr. and Mrs. Quibodeaux on the dance floor. Such grace. As one being, Mr. leads Mrs., their feet moving in sync as the band plays. The other couples give way to them till they have the dance floor to themselves. Gliding along, their feet barely touching the floor, they fill every space. Mr. Q was 82, Mrs. Q, 80. He walked with a cane, she had a walker. But not when dancing.  

Sometimes, it is the beat of a dirge, mourning the loss of a loved one, or the lament of a people and a nation that has lost its way, or has otherwise succumbed to change and time. 

It is the steady beat of a drum, pulled by horse and sledge. A heavy-handed club comes down on a human hide stretched over a hollowed-out tree stump. It marches men in lockstep, steadily into a battle they cannot win. They left their camp knowing they wouldn’t return. Leave it all to the scavengers, beast and man. 

It is the beat of a storm surge rising unstoppably inch by inch to inundate the lowlands wherever it happens to make landfall. The ivory ball on a roulette wheel - where will it land? It is the Texas coast this time. People pray, “Dear Lord, it missed us this time. Were grateful!” Others pray, “Dear Lord, give us the strength to rebuild. This is the homeland we love.”   

It is the beat to the song “America the Beautiful.” 

It is a man on horseback, galloping to the beat over landscapes of lowland swamp, and bone-bleaching deserts, across fertile rolling grasslands, and bone-chilling mountain passes. Searching for something. And nothing. It’s all in the chase.  

Or, perhaps, he’s fighting some battle within himself. To a future better than the past or just for change itself?  

He rides a steel-grey steed with a silver mane, striding towards his demons in a long time coming face-to-face head-to-head clash. May his daemons be with him. May he find pearls of golden wisdom along the way.  

It is the beat of my alarm clock at 5 am. - “Wake up!” 

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