The Charm of 5:30

When it gets warm like it is today in DC, I have some problems with making it to class, reading what I should be reading, and doing anything indoors in general. If I'm able to go outside and eat my lunch, I am going to sit out there. And there is a poem that pretty much sums up what I feel in this weather, so I thought I'd reprint it here:

"The Charm of 5:30" by David Berman

It's too nice a day to read a novel set in England.

We're within inches of the perfect distance from the sun,
the sky is blueberries and cream,
and the wind is as warm as air from a tire.
Even the headstones in the graveyard
  Seem to stand up and say "Hello! My name is..."

It's enough to be sitting here on my porch,
thinking about Kermit Roosevelt,
following the course of an ant,
or walking out into the yard with a cordless phone
       to find out she is going to be there tonight

On a day like today, what looks like bad news in the distance
turns out to be something on my contact, carports and white
courtesy phones are spontaneously reappreciated
       and random "okay"s ring through the backyards.

This morning I discovered the red tints in cola
       when I held a glass of it up to the light
and found an expensive flashlight in the pocket of a winter coat
            I was packing away for summer.

It all reminds me of that moment when you take off your sunglasses
after a long drive and realize it's earlier
and lighter out than you had accounted for.

You know what I'm talking about,

and that's the kind of fellowship that's taking place in town, out in
the public spaces.  You won't overhear anyone using the words
"dramaturgy" or "state inspection today.  We're too busy getting along.

It occurs to me that the laws are in the regions and the regions are
in the laws, and it feels good to say this, something that I'm almost
sure is true, outside under the sun.

Then to say it again, around friends, in the resonant voice of a
nineteenth-century senator, just for a lark.

There's a shy looking fellow on the courthouse steps, holding up a
placard that says "But, I kinda liked Reagan."  His head turns slowly
as a beautiful girl walks by, holding a refrigerated bottle up against
her flushed cheek.

She smiles at me and I allow myself to imagine her walking into
town to buy lotion at a brick pharmacy.
When she gets home she'll apply it with great lingering care before
moving into her parlor to play 78 records and drink gin-and-tonics
beside her homemade altar to James Madison.

In a town of this size, it's certainly possible that I'll be invited over
one night.

In fact I'll bet you something.

Somewhere in the future I am remembering today.  I'll bet you
I'm remembering how I walked into the park at five thirty,
my favorite time of day, and how I found two cold pitchers
of just poured beer, sitting there on the bench.

I am remembering how my friend Chip showed up
with a catcher's mask hanging from his belt and how I said

great to see you, sit down, have a beer, how are you,
and how he turned to me with the sunset reflecting off his contacts
and said, wonderful, how are you.

Also, I'm reading St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves, which is a great book of short stories in the magical realism...genre? style? Anyway, the writer is only in her twenties and extremely talented.

Good news: I finished my rough drafts for my thesis, and I'll put them on here as I edit them. I'm also working on a new story called "Phenology," which I'm very excited about.