(stream of consciousness freeform post, me sitting in my office with music and then… this.)
as bolero plays I am inextricably drawn, no, transported to a transformation, into the dawn of seasons, to spring, to observe the saplings, the probing buds, all the green things, the rise of life from fallow-dead-white fields, months shallow now filled eyes out to the horizon brim, plum blossoms sun-bursting in celestial parades, off carried by a gentle hand – a tender breeze, seed stars dance like human figurines, in this glorious ballroom of renewal, yes, bolero, more so than vivaldi’s reckoning, I do not know why, but that reminds me of spring in full swing, not this, not the uprising whistling just past the thaw, the burgeoning tide of dawn, where bird’s chatter is that much more amplified – melody, more – harmony, epiphany, the perfect score for the painted landscape being re-born, yes, bolero, tickles my ear, punches the ticket when I am on board, elucidates a dreaming dream to sweep away the doldrums of this daily day, for I see snow, and the icy remains, but no, bolero has brought me the inspired warmth of spring – if only for a moment as graces my auditoryum.
I felt an uncomfortable sensation, like I was some where I did not belong, sure, the air is still and calm, and the sounds I hear are more like a glacier’s song, but here?? on a standard street in new jersey suburbia, I was awaiting the proverbial jumping cat to normalize the scene with banality, no luck there, sudden subtle whooshing water sounds, creaks and cracks, little pops, especially when the wind played cover for the under, fog, on a cold winter night? I can taste the moisture on my tongue somewhat, something is thawing, something is coming, that slight frozen fog suspended in air… or my eyes, I am not sure if I am in the dream state between or this is some parallel I have stepped into between worlds, I look to my neighbor’s house, all the lights are out, except those landscape domes buried in half a foot of snow, a semi circle, almost like a buried ufo, or proof of roswell is buried there, prints, prints across the white ‘scape, evidence, a trace, things have been skulking about but the melt makes a succinct inspection impossible, a cat, a dog, a fox, who knows, a person lost in the storm, probably not on that score, but these are written stories on the temporary ice canvas laid out, soon to become a book and flow into a stream, into the ocean, and off into the vast consciousness of the world continued and forgotten, all twined together like our daily lives, just these frozen at this one time, inextricably linked by binds of time and circumstance, and I can not decipher them before this alexandria burns into the ground, such is the way of the world, but I do not have to like it, and again, I hear more strange sounds, the closer I walk towards the more silence raises up to block my ears, the wind, a loki, shakes the tree above me raining down perfect droplet bombs of sub chill local tree rain, not from a cloud, at least not now, they hit me to distract from the creeping doom I imagine is out there… or I know is out there, but not tonight, not here, I return to the warmth of my hearth and home, to the domain of my screen, and these words, a survivor as long as fate may grant me, able to write my words at night so faintly, I hope my echo can carry in this chasm and catch the wind on the other side.
notes… as usual, all thoughts and comments are appreciated. good, bad, indifferent, did you read this? I wonder. did you experience?
my beautiful flower for what have I done poisoned my garden ’till kingdom come
notes… since my father passed I have been posting photos on my facebook page daily, and of course I wound up running across photos of her, mirsa, my true love, the major screw up I can never mend, well, I hope but that was many years ago, time is supposed to mend or heal, not so much here, I try not dwell but honestly it is always there, somewhere, some days just rise and it is all I can think about, just happened to coincide with V-day, I used to make her special meals, with red themes, heart shaped veg or the like, always something ambitious, I miss those days, but I am still here and there are days ahead, so that has to be my focus, but seeing those old photos, the closeness, her holding me and me her, in addition to my old dog, Chestnut, whom I loved so very much, and made mistakes like any first time parent, memories, of all the animals we had, practically a zoo, birds (amazon yellow front, parakeet, parotlet, monk parakeet), a degu, pacus, turtles (mississippi mud and soft shell), a mexican tarantula, a sugar glider and a texas ground squirrel… yeah it was pretty nuts, and I leaving out the scorpions and betas… retrospect always breeds romanticism, but who am I to argue with my own feelings? but accept them.
“and what I know of the silence of love speaks volumes”
notes… haiku? not sure, not meant to be, strictly, that is, this is something I woke up this morning and this was scribbled (OK, typed) in notepad on my little laptop friend here, I don’t even recall writing it, but since I am a music wonk it has beats… 5 / 5/ 3, funny how the universe works such things out (hat tip, universe, in waves)
perhaps this is causality and I am the casualty of- the rain a grey veil of gloom over even silver linings wane not some days not all days today, one of those lingering an insidious thought invades, breaks the levy ‘I have nothing’ or feel that way perhaps only because I ‘had’ I can not stop the swell, the surge the rush back, a rampaging flood now converges that a bound fist in my abdomen confirms my eyes well, we all want to travel back, to rewrite; and we do, in a way, down that path, in our mind but know, always know the foundation the truth is in the earth, hands clench this the cruelty of the steadiness of dirt support of life and burial of the dead roots as far reach as heaven, up into the air roots buried, anchors, always, memories a library, a curated collection rows and rows of known, wanton forgotten I am alone- most days this is not a bother some days a marker, a visitor, my own host I scrape for false shelter draw out the homilies on my lips all the words I left out a mantra to my burden to wait out the storm and pretend some more.
note… to any new people (as I am seeing more traffic), hello you (waving), my work is off the cuff, one off, unless otherwise noted, perfect? no way man…. but I post it… and here it is… when I write the thing it is visceral, you get me facial, that’s all… and if you like it … great, if not, also great, I appreciate the read, the time, your eyes, thanks… we are existing right now at this time…. which is a miracle, billions of the years of the universe have brought us together… for corn dogs… well, er, at least that or more I hope, so all your comments, recipes, thoughts, coherent rants and advice for my garden – are appreciated. I am the bamboo whisperer… I tell ya…
may I lay down along the nazca lines and so align along orion’s belt all, before I die, will I see paris, one more time?
(2) stuck on an island divorced from pangea long ago “will I see paris before I die?” I asked the also flightless kakapo “surely you did not expect me to answer, for that would be absurd” I thought the bird might mutter but what is more absurd than a flightless bird? “have you bothered to look in the mirror?, SIR” rocco concurred fair point, for a stranger in a strange land a spectrum island if there has ever been even in this waking dream I keep thinking I might run into a hobbit or two surely up for a brew or some song and more ale or two but the maori tell me of more a place to jump into the hereafter if only I could muster the muster to disappear into the tasman sea
notes… again, I stipulate, that sometimes things just come to me, or occur to me @ random, this is one of those works, just random universe influenced onto my thoughts, I can not explain it fully nor do I care to, at this point in my life I prefer to let it flow, so here it goes…
the lady in waiting, trade in a life for the dream, so clear, a portrayal of all love inside a movie scene, i always thought it would be you, a quiet painted green wooden porch, the type of porch that encompasses all around the house, peeling paint on all the edges of door and window frames, buckled from years of the seasons beatings, a backdrop to all the reasons, the creaking rocker swing, and there we are, looking out at a long field of green grasses, something like a farm, harmonized by the subtle magic of the grass swaying, for a jersey boy a strange thought perhaps, maybe this is some sort of rockwell archetype (or hummel) etched in me somewhere at my core, a typical apple pie american bucolic scene, and my mind shifts… maybe the shore, the ocean, the beach with no one else around, the gulls sounds across the dunes, I suppose miles of swaying grass resembles the sea after all, the same calming feeling ensues, wind waves undulating on, perhaps she waits there for me, or am I waiting for her to arrive, here at, the sunset of our lives, a sun sinks below into the depths, seagulls become just black angle angels hovering against the glow, tired and quiet now, there is just the sound of the waves break, the pulse, the true deep heartbeat of the earth herself, and your hand, I can feel the warmth from what blood is left, our eyes locked out to the seascape, as if we are one, and we are, because that is what I wish this to be, my lady in waiting, my love, I will come for thee, if I have to cross the face of god or the scour the body of the universe – for you, I will, I will come, to spend those last moments with you – as one, I will walk barefoot across the surface of the sun, burn all that remains save my soul for the return, for I will journey on, until, I am once more with you, my love, my lady in waiting.
I only need to see but routinely ignore the empty sheets of morning
in that moment, perhaps a moment, something I usually do not think about on the way out the door, or maybe try not to anymore, but did this morning, how usually, how used to, I might find you there, and stare, watch you sleep, laid out, jumbled, or curled up in bundles, my love, your night black hair, with a few grays, even back then, in our twenties, how long has this been an empty bed, nothing between the sheets when I leave, the empty sheets of morning are all that greet me, how I have grown accustomed to the notion, a place once inhabited by two, entwined devotion, now just an island, I do not recall even arriving here, just surviving here, but here I am and here I’ve been, so long now… so damn long now… is this to be my end? these empty sheets that greet me every morning since.
the dampness in my heart has been replaced by a restless cough born, of barren ash once blood did flow a river of hope life in – pump by pump deadened – to a still birth a trickle down you are gone, my love and so I evolve into the ground
notes… sometimes I get caught in themes or a mode of thought, the world could be celebrating but I exist in my own head, as we all do, sometimes retreat feels like the obvious option, but yet I persist in moving forward with anchors of the past, so I must have hope in there somewhere in all the despair, there is always hope, I search for the light, and I often fail but I aim for the light, I do.
a prayer for her, for let the ground upon which her feet may rest be bound in all the world’s blessing, may light so shine and guide her way forever to seek safe passage until that day when I might be with her once more in passing
notes… and indeed I do miss her, and long for our coming together, if it may ever happen as it once did, I can only imagine….