I think of people past,
Who’ve crossed my path,
Who’ve caressed the monument’s emblem
With attention to the ease of things.
I see the outline of my shadow on the leaves,
The hopes of uncoming dreams,
The want for victories,
The efforts for the grandest hastings.
Sirens cloud my thoughts.
I turn my head toward
The smooth ride of a cadillac
Cruising down a sunny afternoon path.
My hands are getting pasted
inside capitol L’s, O’s, and past-tense -ed’s.
I’m losing sense of ease.
My eyes are getting sucked deep into ink black
with the papers’ rising stacks.
The last page’s headline,
covered back to front,
asking unsolved questions,
giving us reasons to sing war hymns.
In a gray corner
a nondescript article
mentioned a scientific miracle,
while another shrouded it’s ink
in an invisible red--
lost a bullet inside the word ‘kill’
a life inside the word ‘saved.’
The gold’s not getting golder, people
the hold’s not getting stronger,
the pages are getting longer
and the ink is staining darker.
Bond busts are booming
and bomb plots are looming.
Stock market crash and volcano ash.
A tick in the steel
and you can no longer feel.
The Gulf is crying crude tears
while the coast receives its fears.
And an oil giant blunder
just over five feet under
ruined a life on Monday
and left some dollars in disarray.
Who am I to say
that everything’ll be okay?
Turn the page and you’ll find the color fading,
close the paper and you’ll find life remaining.
This is what I want to give you
This is what I want to give you:
two slices of “I miss you,”
a handful of ego,
and a heart-full of fearless hope.
In return I’ll take a tear drop
laced upon my eyelash.
you can wipe it away and tell me that
everything’s gonna be okay -
31 déc 2009
(To accompany this entry, you can listen to Beach House's "Tokyo Witch."
Search on google or youtube and listen to their music here.)
Flying at dusk is her favorite time to fly. Forward. Facing fading formations of one unseemingly sallow blanket of clouds, resting together in such a way as to gather beauty toute ensemble. One continuous cotton canopy seen from above. Above everything. Dusk above everything. The deep orange, rouge, and thin layer of thick blue that lets the eye gently lose sight of light, welcoming evening with ease.
It made her want to dive. Dive into those clouds like light-weight waves resting on the ocean. She was there, imagining herself descending to a quick splash and emerging refreshed, cleansed, reinvigorated with the nature of the sky.
(This is something our human bodies cannot feel, and so it had a strong appeal).
She didn’t dive, though, nor imagine herself diving. Those clouds were too delicate. Too peaceful. They weren’t waiting for the disruption and eruption of her dive, so she didn’t even offer it to them. Rather, she just thought about how glorious it would be, and how real it would feel.
It was dusk, and darkness was coming from high up. Here, she didn’t feel the sun setting as much as she
felt the earth turning away from the sun. When standing on the sand, gazing at the horizon, the sun left her. But up high, she could feel that turning, that sanctuary salut in the slowly arriving colors, growing deeper and deeper. Nighttime in the sky.
It was then she was calmly reminded that night isn’t frightening, only uncertain, and uncertainty isn’t frightening unless it is allowed to be.
Besançon, France - à côté du Doubs
