The only sounds heard on the apartment balcony while absorbed in the dry heat on a sunny day are the throaty burble of a distant field tractor; the springtime squawks of Canada geese on the river or the caw of a nearby crow; and, the occasional buzz of a fly. We maintain two black deck chairs on the balcony throughout the year. They’re sturdily constructed of impenetrable plastic – a valuable though modest purchase from Levi Hardware.
The balcony adjoining our apartment is about 15′ long, 7′ wide, bordered with black metal railing and clear Plexiglass. It is a private balcony on the 2nd floor, unlike the perpetual terrace surrounding all the units on the top 3rd floor. Once seated on a deck chair facing southwest and upriver into the dazzling sun, spectacles set aside on the small collapsible table between the 2 chairs, eyes closed, it is an instantaneous evaporation. I purposefully oblige myself to capture whatever first stirs my thoughts or imagination, then nurturing whatever I’ve discovered, intentionally pursuing the sometimes irrational avenues which then invariably drift into sleep and mental departure from the present. The reason for the uninhibited immersion in this whimsical mindset is to overcome the universal and traditionally anxious state of mind which governs me. I am perpetually assessing things, the past, the present, the future; always seeking to construct a manifold of ideas to synthesize the whole.
On a sunny day I often exercise this somnolent privilege after having fulfilled my athletic duties on my tricycle. As limited as the cycling normally is (4Km today), the activity greedily accepts the pause in the deck chair. I am convinced I sleep more soundly (that is, more generously and without interrupting flights of anxiety) during these brief midday intermissions than during the nighttime. Perhaps it is only the latter which invites the former; but – whatever – the submission works.
Critically the soporific state succeeds to remove one from the immediate surroundings. The status of one’s mind in this vacuous sphere is free from either boundary or description. Though, upon awakening from my sunlight bliss, I haven’t an ocean, beach or swimming pool within which to engage, I have everything else at hand: shade, food or drink, and transition of any styling. Of course I cannot overlook stating the obvious; namely, that the fortuitous direction of the apartment building captures the positive allure of the sun’s rotation and the almost cinematic projection of the river winding its way to the Village of Appleton.
ChatGPT:
The Luxury of a Deck Chair in the Sun
The only sounds heard from the apartment balcony, while absorbed in the dry heat of a sunny day, are the throaty burble of a distant field tractor; the springtime squawks of Canada geese along the river; the caw of a nearby crow; and the occasional lazy buzz of a fly. We maintain two black deck chairs year-round — sturdily built from dense, impenetrable plastic — a modest yet valuable purchase from Levi Hardware.
The balcony adjoins our second-floor apartment, about fifteen feet long and seven wide, bordered by a black metal railing and clear Plexiglass. It is a private refuge, unlike the open terrace that runs the perimeter of the third floor. Once seated in a deck chair, facing southwest upriver into the dazzling sun, spectacles set aside on the small collapsible table between the chairs, and eyes closed, evaporation is instantaneous. I purposely oblige myself to capture whatever first stirs my thoughts or imagination, nurturing it wherever it leads — sometimes irrationally — before drifting into sleep, an escape from the governed world of consciousness.
This practice — of whimsical surrender — is deliberate. It counters the incessant, anxious assessment that ordinarily defines my mind: perpetually parsing past, present, and future, endlessly constructing some manifold to make the whole coherent. Here, I let it all fall away.
Often this somnolent privilege follows a modest but earnest exertion on my tricycle — today, four kilometres. However limited the cycling may be, the effort justifies the luxurious pause. I am convinced that I sleep more soundly during these midday interludes than I do at night: a sleep more generous, more forgiving, untroubled by anxious flights. Perhaps it is the effort that invites the release — or perhaps merely the ritual — but, whatever the cause, the submission works.
Critically, the soporific state succeeds because it removes me from immediate surroundings. The mind in that vacuous sphere exists without boundary or description. Upon awakening from this sunlight immersion, there is no ocean, no beach, no swimming pool awaiting me — but everything else I could need is at hand: shade, food, drink, and the subtle transitions of the day’s rhythm.
I cannot overlook the quiet fortune of geography either: the apartment faces the sun’s triumphant rotation and frames the river’s slow, cinematic journey toward the Village of Appleton. In its own small way, it is everything.
No. 2:
The Luxury of a Deck Chair in the Sun
The only sounds that reach the balcony, where the dry heat wraps around me like linen, are the distant burble of a tractor across the fields; the springtime clamor of geese threading the river’s edge; the solitary caw of a crow; and now and then, the indolent drone of a fly. The two black deck chairs — year-round sentinels — stand ready. They are sturdily made of dense, impervious plastic: a modest acquisition from Levi Hardware, made priceless by constancy.
The balcony, second-floor and private, stretches fifteen feet by seven, bordered with black iron and clear Plexiglass — a transparent threshold between the tangible and the infinite. Above us, the third floor is ringed by an open terrace, but here, the space is ours alone. Facing southwest, upriver, into the streaming brilliance of the sun, I lay my spectacles on the small collapsible table between the chairs, close my eyes — and dissolve. Evaporation comes not by degrees, but in an instant.
I make a ritual of this disbanding of thought. Whatever stirs first within the darkened theatre of my mind — a memory, a phrase, a glint of an idea — I follow without resistance, sometimes down paths that rationality would dismiss. It matters not. In drifting, I am released from the ceaseless assembly of self: the perpetual parsing of past and future, the urgent construction of meaning, the endless trying to weave the whole.
Typically, this luxury follows some small feat of effort: a brief ride on my tricycle, four kilometres today, a circumscribed journey that still satisfies the ancient bargain between labor and reward. However modest the exertion, it sanctifies the pause. And during these midday sojourns, I sleep more deeply — more mercifully — than at night, when the anxious mind mounts its regular assaults. Whether it is the effort or simply the sunlight that dissolves the inner clamor, I do not know. But the spell works.
In the soporific state, the mind becomes a thing unmade — neither contained nor described, no longer even self-referential. It is not that I forget my surroundings; rather, they become unnecessary. Upon waking, there is no surf, no azure bay, no chlorinated pool shimmering nearby — but there is everything else: shade ready to fold over me, food and drink within reach, and the invisible, patient rhythm of the day unfolding like a living clock.
And always, there is the view — a silent benediction: the slow winding of the river toward Appleton, catching the sun’s angles as though it, too, had dreamed itself loose from its banks. In such small miracles, life proves itself endlessly sufficient.
3rd:
The Luxury of a Deck Chair in the Sun
On a dry, sunlit afternoon, the only sounds that reach the apartment balcony are the distant burble of a tractor across the fields, the springtime cries of geese threading along the river, the solitary caw of a crow, and now and then, the lazy buzz of a fly. Two black deck chairs, sturdily built of dense plastic — a modest, enduring purchase from Levi Hardware — remain in place year-round.
The balcony, adjoining our second-floor apartment, stretches about fifteen feet by seven, bordered with black metal railing and clear Plexiglass. It offers a private refuge, unlike the communal terrace that rings the floor above. Facing southwest upriver, into the sheer brilliance of the sun, I set aside my spectacles on the small table between the chairs, close my eyes, and dissolve. Evaporation is immediate.
I make it a ritual to follow the first stirrings of thought or memory, however stray or irrational they seem. It is a deliberate act of surrender — an antidote to the perpetual habit of parsing the past, measuring the present, and attempting to braid together a coherent future. Here, I let the scaffolding fall away. Whatever fragment rises, I pursue it without judgment, allowing it to drift as it pleases, until sleep softens everything further.
Often this somnolent liberty follows a modest exertion on my tricycle — today, a short but satisfying four kilometers. However limited the effort, it consecrates the pause that follows. And during these midday interludes, I find a deeper, more forgiving sleep than the anxious flights of night usually permit. Whether it is the effort, the sunlight, or merely the ritual that invites such surrender, it scarcely matters: the submission works.
In this suspended state, the mind loses its edges, its definitions. There is no urgent task of naming, no anxious need to anchor oneself to the moment. Upon waking, there is no ocean or pool waiting, no dramatic tableau — only shade, the nearness of food and drink, and the quiet continuation of the day’s slow, reliable transitions.
I would be remiss not to recognize the quiet fortune of this setting: the apartment faces the sun’s generous arc and frames the river’s winding journey toward the Village of Appleton — a view that seems, at times, almost to dream its own way forward. In these small, unspoken gifts, the day completes itself.