Morning Irrelevant

                            [Work in progress] Morning Elephant - Charcoal Transfer, 8.5x11

They were three white dots at this distance, floating on a column of air.

Looking out the window I wondered what drew the gulls to the storm front, what attracted them to the purple monster outside my west-facing window.
I had the glass open, it was the first warm day of spring and I was not going to miss a single breeze.  Morning storms always had a particular scent, especially in spring, a smell of being clean, of an air that still had a purity to it.
The gulls sank below the line of houses that crowded the horizon, the deep purple grew towards grey and the breeze gathered force: a warning for me, for me alone. All I had to do was listen.
How long could I stand here watching the clouds and the birds before I figured out something new and different about life? If I asked myself that same question thirteen minutes ago, I would have been cruel, “Forever, kid, because those mindless birds and that cumulonimbus won’t give you anything, nothing but the rain and the cold.”
But I know that’s not true now, I know the rain isn’t always cold and the birds aren’t always mindless; something like a single moment is enough to tell the history of the world.

I tip-toed down the stairs, out the already unlocked door and into the narrow gap between houses, in this gutter of a space the wind was strongest, drowning me in its normally unwelcome whoosh, swallowing my naked body in the heat of its breath. This moment is so hard to describe.
Pale orange sunrise to my back, the darkness of a coming downpour to my front and here I stand, naked and unafraid. Randomly in my youth I would perform activities without clothes - cooking, video games, homework, whatever – just to see if it changed the moment, if it made cooking less banal, or games more demanding. In this moment (realizing that until now I’d never been completely nude while outdoors) I can say that I was a bright child; that I was on to something, that this moment would not be the same if I was chained to the earth with some label-laden latex or cotton jumpsuit.
I took the few steps towards the mail box, lifting the red flag – outgoing mail – I hope someone spends a great deal of time considering why I did this, what did the dead man’s actions mean?

Five black dots ascended across the storm front, moving opposite their predecessors, which flock was moving the right direction?  This passing did not seem as crucial as the first, was I a racist for paying more attention to the white birds? It seemed silly to wonder, but all of my thoughts were important, every last firing synapse was critical.

Four more steps and I am at the curb; cars parked along the opposite side of the street and a child’s bicycle thrown casually in the tree lawn. One more step and I am in the road, the indigo monster is overhead and the sunlight senses it, the morning gets dimmer. The street is already wet and I take my planned position in the middle, facing west – away from the rising sun.

The road runs along my outstretched arms, one hand facing south, the other north. The northern hand is heavy - a handgun will do that, it seems. There would only be a few seconds of silence as the wind died, the noise at the front of the storm passing as it gave way to the quiet raindrops and the screech of tires.
I raised the gun, thinking briefly about a diagram on how to properly shoot myself in the head (the most effective avenue would be to shoot into the top, aiming down), but the thought passes and the barrel touches my temple – best to look the part. This was the first half of the last second of my life, the second half was supposed to be my pulling of the trigger, of a lightning-less thunder that would break the stormy sky. 
I didn’t have the time to be disappointed though, the F-150 collides with my pale, ivory skin; the way my body moves from zero to forty is like a dance - my arms become the long colored ribbons. I twist in the middle, hugging the red paint. The pick-up had swerved into me, the driver’s side window meeting my face and the hammer of the gun – together we crack the glass into a web of splinters and fragmented reflections.

My descent from forty back to zero was less graceful, it happened over twenty three feet, another half second. I rolled to a stop at the apron of my neighbor’s driveway, landing so I could see their crab grass. The truck stopped short of running me over, the screech finally ending with the staccato of glass shards and muffled cries of panic coming from within the cab.
Where was my gun?
My eyes swam around, desperately searching for the small black death-machine, I want to look further, but my head won’t roll over. I have another passing thought about how I should be in pain, but I’m not. The concern comes and goes, instead I’m wishing for pants.