The Gloam, a Caesura of Day

At one point I seriously considered Graduate studies in Alaska. Primarily because I was fascinated with the thought of living for long periods in a perpetual dusk. How was it described to me—as light for half the year; dark for the other half? Always dim? I like very much the thought of dusk at all times. That is the time of day I feel most comfortable, most like me. Dusk to me suggests the successful completion of another day and the promise of night—which is always exciting. I approach dusk with something akin to the literary symbolism attached by many to the dawn.

The gloam—yes, of course. It is the gloam for me that is the most perfect part of a given day.

A friend of mind has started a novel set in Alaska. That, I suppose, is what has me thinking there. In addition to Graduate school, I also thought long and hard of taking a spot on a fishing boat out of Alaska. Fifty thousand dollars for less than six months work seemed about right to me. But the reality is that I couldn’t be less handy or suited for real work. I still do a victory lap when I manage to pump gas without soaking the side of the Jeep. And I know that job has ruined men far tougher than me. So the fishing boat remains but an old misplaced thought. As I get older though, I ponder, you know, I could do that. Then I fill up the Jeep and think again.

Truly, I don’t necessarily require a full time dusk. The Southern gloam is as fine as anything I could need. Tennessee has a nice twilight or sunset or whatever the fuck. It can be a good red, or blue, or orange, or simple bruise of things to come. Ours is no Key West or Miami or Colorado Springs or Albuquerque, but it is ours and I would run it in a competition and expect no less than Honorable Mention.

And that time of day is special if you let it be. It means cold beer on the porch. Sometimes a cigar—(if Ken hasn’t sent you a Cuban, then a CAO Gold Double Corona will do just fine). Sometimes wine—(if Rodney Strong isn’t available, then just about any other Pinot Noir will do). Sometimes a full-on Ryan Drink—which is possibly Makers but most likely Evan Williams with a splash. It means the perfect silence of non-silence. It is the happy squeals of children in the distance. Perhaps a train whistle. On a really good evening, it is the sound of cicadas (or as I prefer, katydids) whining loud all ‘round, driving everyone but you to madness. And it is during those times when it occurs to me, “Ok. Ok. I can do this. I can get through this thing.” Because when you put a day to bed you’ve really done something. You’ve made it. You’ve taken the world’s best shots and come out standing. You may be tired, battered, disillusioned, but you stood long enough so that you can enjoy sitting on the porch with a drink (or not) and listening to the silence we so often take for granted. And Goddamn, that’s a nice thing isn’t it?

And you sit there and let the stress go like rainwater. And you hear Tom Waits drifting to you through your open window. Or maybe for you it is Diane Schuur or Paganini or NWA or Taj Mahal or… But you sit there and begin to feel almost human. And you wonder who is it that fucks with you so as to put you through the ringer and then sees fit to reward you with such a pause, a caesura of day. But your wonder turns to gratitude and then something like love.

At least mine does.