astrud in black and white, bossa nova posterchild, rio de janeiro summer, probably first heard it in a west village cafe, turned any room into a beach, even in february new york city, samba power, brasil cool, we lost her, ms. gilberto, but the song lives on and on
her curfew midnight, i sprinted the summer streets of madrid. by metro and taxi, she, an hour away, then an hour back across the capital city. 16 years old, when i could run and sweat, 94 degrees dripping down my cheeks. it didn’t matter, because i always stood by the open window of the metro train, hot air drying everything except the pounding blood in my chest, and i hardly knew it, but this was love. arriving, eyes aglow, to stroll on an ancient moorish pathway, share a morsel of ice cream. 12am, taxi, underground train, back to carabanchel, the far reaches of madrileńo civilization. never a second thought that i would do it all over the next night.
Summer asphalt, I feel it against my cheek, warm with embarrassment and sun’s absorption, after toe snags into pothole and I tumble face first into the road’s crosswalk. This, while holding two Slurpees in July, neither spills, miracle of frozen blue sugar ice. Honking cars and trucks applaud, recognizing my brief journey from sky to ground, entertainment while waiting for red to turn to green. I rise slowly, take a small bow, try to grin, clutch the drinks and walk again.
Quarter of 7, up, make Hudson breakfast, drive to school, check for vultures that were feasting on two dead deer the day before, the deer are gone, strange. Anyway, Hudson’s last full day of school, so happy/sad, that pre-summer, pre-moving out of Tennessee feeling. Home, upload Alphabet poem onto my blog, check email. Fruit only breakfast, blueberries, bananas, apples, all cut up (not the blueberries), eaten with a spoon. Oolong tea, gift from a student, the perfect gift. Read a book on intuition, meditation, sitting, allowing the universe to guide you/me, by Echo Bodine. Talk with my wife, she’s in California driving, hear the road, 280, heading to San Francisco. Meditate for 16 minutes, why 16? Because, it’s one more than 15, bonus minute for me. Walk on treadmill, slowly, because of spondylolisthesis, old man Dan. Nostalgic for the summer of 1988, listen to sweet child o’ mine, treat people with kindness, see Harry Styles dancing, When In Rome, the promise, then sleepyhead, Passion Pit, details, details, details. Research Axl Rose, Wikipedia says he’s 61, abusive childhood, Lafayette, Indiana, home of Purdue, but bad times for Axl. Harry is 29, happy childhood in Redditch, Worcestershire, England, but I didn’t have to tell you the England part, you knew that, and he does seem kind, at least in the video. Suntan by the pool, 14 minutes, slow and steady wins the race, what race? I just like the ritual, hearing birds, watching the ants. Next, oh the excitement, a double pilates workout with Caroline Jordan, I watch her on a screen for 20 minutes, take a break, then another 30, floor based, again, spondylolisthesis, born with it. Salad, so healthy, broccoli, brussel sprouts, carrots, cabbage, olive oil, bit of salt and sunflower seeds, bubbly water, a must, now here to write.
Sloane is in California working her first paid job as a teaching assistant.
Daniel W. Polk 