I wake with a start long before sunrise. The dog bolted out of the house and barked at something presumably nefarious. False alarm.
I should roll over and try for more sleep.
But the mind scrolls through unmet deadlines and endless unfinished business.
I should get up and work on the list.
But instead I reach for Annie Dillard and read her writing life .
As she describes ace pilot Dave Rahm carving the sky in volumes with a biplane, she conjures art out of his prowess. And I see him playing games with gravity: arabesques in a blue sky, impossible slopes, loops, sputters, glides, silences and angles…
A Picasso sketched on my page.
But an insistent, happy lark barges into my picture, hops in and rips clear through my vision and her magnificent prose.
His sounds bounce in joyful ripples and crash into letters.
It messes with paragraphs, shreds her lines into disconnected pieces, overwrites her phrases tempo rubato… and her text, emptied of sense, scatters in full round notes.
How can I resist this call to sunrise? To life, clear as dew drops, not distilled, sublimated or reframed, even by a brilliant mind like Annie’s? I can’t.
I jump out of bed to join that winged singer, the unknown artist who gives his all in every song. We will catch the sun color the sky and hear a symphony.
Annie is right when she writes ‘that as you spend your days, of course, is how you live your life.’