Ink and Gravity
The beauty of finding oneself in the gutter is the unadulterated view of the stars!
3:00 a.m.
Broken-minded, but not a broken spirit.
A dark room alive with night sounds. A whirring refrigerator fan. The dishwasher hums quietly nearby. Something tick ticking. The faucet. – low drip every minute or so.
The leather couch is cool against my cheek when I turn my head. I realize I’ve fallen asleep watching music videos. My wife has long since retired, traipsing through the dream realm. I vaguely remember a kiss in my twilight. Was that a dream? Or were her gently parted, cool lips a goodnight gesture before she shut down our evening, cast the cat into the night air, and went to bed?
I decide it was real—a quiet gesture of love after last night’s emotional storm. We had a long, tense early morning that finally ended in calm and a mutual resolve to keep moving forward. I appreciate that she seems to be celebrating our life rather than regretting it.
I love this couch, but it isn’t made for sleep. It’s a modern affair—long, low, white leather with stilted legs. Italian-made. A quality piece of furniture. But it has three distinct seating cushions built into its very frame. When a 200-pound gorilla curls up on it for a night of television, five hours later he’s aware of two prominent bars subtly pressing into his rib cage and thigh.
It’s time to follow through on the bedtime routine I skipped earlier when I drifted off. Toothbrush and pills, then I’ll roll out my pallet in the studio. First, I need to reclaim my pillows from the dryer. I had to wash them after last night’s disaster with a large bottle of ink.
After two beers spiked with lemon vodka, I thought it wise to unplug something on my bookshelf. In doing so, I unknowingly knocked a large glass bottle of black India ink onto the tile floor—right next to where I sleep these days. In my very relaxed state, I didn’t notice until hours later, when I woke up lying in a pool of something cold, viscous, and everywhere. My pillows, blankets, face, back, shoulders, arms, and chest—everything was soaked in the rich liquid I usually love to draw with.
If you’ve never spilled artist’s ink, you haven’t lived.
Remember The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss? The one where the kids get a spot of something in their mom’s clean house, and the cat’s efforts to clean it only make it worse? I’m convinced spilled ink inspired that book. It never stops spreading. It took over an hour to clean what I could this morning, and most of the day to scrub it from my skin and hair. My pillows will bear the scars of battle until retirement.
Incidentally, isn’t it strange that those two kids in the book were left home alone? I recall being left to my own devices around age ten or eleven. As an adult, that now feels far too young. I shudder remembering the bent proclivities of people like fictional Hubert Hubert and his appetite for innocence.
I called on a woman early this morning in my ministry whose daughters—nine and ten—opened the door alone, explaining their mom was at work and they were home by themselves. I shivered. The house is on a busy thoroughfare, just a block or two from what appears to be a drug den.
Please close and lock that door, girls. And don’t let in any cats, with or without hats.
I fumble in the dark for my phone and check for new messages.
Nothing.
I’m equal parts satisfied and disappointed. I’m glad my friend is safely tucked away in the mountains of the East, waiting for nine hours of sleep and a full day with friends. The family is spending a week volunteer-teaching and preaching somewhere off Highway 8 in southern Virginia—hillsides, hollows, and curious souls. Seventeen short hours from Dust Meridian.
I reflect on my own day in the preaching work. We made subtle efforts with a few people, all while trying to avoid heat stroke. This time of year is always a challenge. But it’s a pleasure to be doing something worthwhile together. We were joined by a friend who needs people—a widow of two decades. Her adult daughter recently moved to the Northeast, and it’s been a hard adjustment. I can tell—when we’re together, she chatters constantly. Not in a bad way. She just has no one to tell her stories to.
That’s a theme with the single women in my life, usually older, often widowed: they love to talk. A quick call to check on their well-being often turns into an hour of catching up.
This morning, one story stands out. Her 25-year-old daughter had a crush on a man a few years older. The spark faded fast after he told her that getting coffee is the woman’s job. It sounded one “toots” away from a swat on the backside.
So much for that budding romance.
The morning of spiritual conversation was followed by a couple of hours of lawn and building maintenance at the our house of worship, a light lunch, then a nap and a movie (Idiocracy). Evening came too quickly. A friend’s call pulled me away for some emergency counseling—a couple burdened by guilt and regret over past choices. They needed to be reminded that they are not seen for their mistakes, but for their successes.
We all carry so much guilt. And we don’t have to. Of course, letting it go is easier said than done.
I’ve lived a long life convinced of right and wrong. And those truths exist. But lately, I’m learning that survival means doing what’s good for you, not just what someone else says is right.
Be good. Do good works. Don’t beat yourself up if you don’t get it all right all the time.
Back home, my wife started the evening with music videos on YouTube. The first 45 minutes were soundtracks from old films—The Way We Were, Barefoot in the Park, Heartburn, and others. Beautiful songs. Some were new to me.
I finally dozed off during a reel of classic film clips. The last I remember was a scene from Casablanca—Rick coming in to find Sam playing “As Time Goes By,” and ushering him out when he sees her again.
Which brings us here, dear reader. To my reverie on an early Sunday morning in July, the year of our Lord, 2025. 4:38 a.m. CST.
I feel indifferent tonight.
I feel hungry.
I feel like flying.
Maybe it’s just fatigue.
Maybe it’s yesterday’s argument.
One way to find out: sleep a few more hours and see if the fire returns—or if it’ll take a few days to relight my zeal.
#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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