Tuesday’s are hell

There is something the in the very nature, in the very core of Tuesday’s that is tantamount to hell. Monday is consumed with getting back into the routine of a long week, passes pretty quickly and without much in the way of fan fare.  Wednesday, a clear pattern has emerged, up at 5:25, coffee maker started, espresso machine a going, lunch packed, then out the door to the world.  Thursday is about knowing that the weekend is just over the horizon, staying steady, focusing on the prize of Friday evening, waiting there, like a light tower guiding the way.  And then the sweetness of Friday, taking wine on the outside in the afternoon sun, laughter and relief.

Tuesday starts like every other weekday, coffee, espresso, lunch, kisses, and an outright happy launch into the day.  Just as the sun rises enough to provide light in the winter months,  one can set their watch, cellphone, atomic clock by the sounds that erupt at 7 a.m. precisely.   Leaf blowers, by sound alone a small army of them, invade the house across the street, swooping in with such force that the air is filled with pollen and dust for half a block.  The only thing that I could equate that much air power needed for would be perhaps to blow dry Dolly Parton’s hair on a rainy day.   Then, a half hour later, silence.

Back to the novel, working for a few sparing minutes knowing that if anything this is the lull before the second invasion.  The second wave is a much more massive operation, that begins with once again, the revving of the blowers.   And as with the early morning army, the air fills with dust and pollen, turbulent as a hurricane this time, unlike the earlier Sahara dust stormed that just passed.   For two straight hours this maniacal action goes on, with the addition of mowers, chainsaws or any other device that requires gasoline and being un muffled.  By the early afternoon, all is done.

Now I know, yes, I am complaining, being perhaps a tad over sensitive.  The usual default sound now that the bus has left the street route has been nothing but quiet, with an errant Porsche racing up the road, or kids on motor scooters from time to time passing by.  But when the main thing that one does for a purpose is to write from the quiet spaces in ones head, the impact of the outside world comes in to play.  I would also like to admit, that revenge is found every Sunday.  Just as the neighbors settle in for a post brunch nap, the lawn mower is dusted off and put into action, with a careful twice over being given for good measure.  Then the coup de gras, a good solid 45 minutes of leaf blowing.

For my neighbors, it is Sunday, the weekend, that is most hated.

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About Sarah Seager

I am an artist that works and lives in the wilds of Los Angeles.
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