Early morning is the springtime of the day, a time of quickening and possibilities. Late morning and early afternoon are summertime, lazy, indolent, a time of pulp fiction. Late afternoon and early evening are autumn, brisk and productive despite the fatigue. Late evening and nighttime are winter, the time when we stagger into the cave and go to sleep.
Early morning, say from 6 to 9 am, is the most hallowed time for me, a time when I hear most clearly what is spoken in silence. Words on a page speak their truth in the morning, and I am happy to listen. By the time the commercial world is fully open for business it’s all yadda yadda and I’m often embarrassed to be participating in the banality of the least interesting part of the day. Preparation for dinner, to say nothing of the experience of eating it, and the anticipation of the aesthetic richness of the “culture hours” that follow give this latter part of the day a proscenium, showtime quality. Then the curtain closes, the shadows dance, I draw the bedclothes around my nakedness, and head toward the River Styx.
That others have different seasons of the day than me is almost incomprehensible. That the majority of “working day” occurs when I feel I should be on summer vacation probably speaks to why I am not world famous.
A quick glance at the clock shows that I have 15 minutes remaining in the best part of the day, 15 more minutes to maximally relish the elegance and fragrance of this wonderful sentence written by Ian Frazier that I read this morning in the September 1 edition of The New Yorker. The author writes of Alley Pond Park in Queens, NY: “In fact, the park stretches for more than a mile and a half and covers more than six hundred and fifty-five acres that seem almost to be in another dimension, coexisting as they do with the Cross Island Parkway, Northern Boulevard, the Long Island Expressway, the Douglaston Parkway, Union Turnpike, and the Grand Central Parkway, all of which insinuate their multiple lanes through and along the park and curl their intricate cloverleafs over the green of its map like sprung violin strings.”
Now it’s 8:52 am and in eight minutes that wonderful poetic sentence will turn into yadda yadda yadda.