July 26, 2012. 9:38 PM. On the road, contemplating the view from my hotel bed.
The air conditioning shut off a few minutes ago. I am slightly taken aback by the weight of the quiet in the room. The ambience isn't noise-free, but the little noises I hear only make the gaps in between that much heavier.
There is a trickling noise from the bathroom. Slight thumps above and to the sides, the muffled voices from down the hallway outsid my door. Hum of the lamp whose light is a peculiar shade of what I think of as watered milk. Or a miner's lamp through a plate of opal glass.
A faint flash through the window leads me to believe the is lightning outside, perhaps the threat of storm made good. That impression is strengthened bybthe room lights flickering, once, twice, three times in less than two minutes. The rain I cannot say if that is a good thing or no; the city outside my room is not the one that makes my home these days. I hear the rumble of thunder, that stentorian promise of rain and I wish I could take some of that with me on my return trip tomorrow.
Tomorrow. On the plane again, my daughter with me for a summer visit. Her presence and energy give the lie to the jaded road tripper I imagine myself to be, those times when I find myself between stops, the edges of my mind worn smooth by the grit of internal journeys. I look to her very often for inspiration, that something to push me out of the personal Bermuda Triangle of introspection in which the ship of my soul too often disappears. She is, perhaps, my stargate.
The air conditioning kicked back on. The temperature in the room drops precipitously, and it makes me think of good sleeping weather. The fatigue of the day seeps into my bones. Time perhaps to head off to bed. I will close my eyes, dreaming my way into sunny days and laughter, of those I hold dear, and the love they rain down on the grand desert of my road dog heart.