take my hand and listen for the song for that which once was
take my hand and let us sing in the dream that which was before
so we may travel, hand in hand over bridge, on a tune from past to a familiar, but aged land an island, an atoll a paradise built for two and rebuild our house there plank by plank a skylight to the stars at night let the sands pass all our earthly sins let time swallow us whole together for always and at last for I may gently pass with my only reason you my love, you, my love.
notes… I do not know why I so identify with life on an island, maybe it is my time in Florida and the Keys, such a magical place, why am I living here? I suppose if I had the means and the moxie I would move my ass down there for good, and I would, and I will, an island seems like an offering to the ocean gods and they rule most of the known world, those are my thoughts, but as soul calming as that would be, as amazing a life to live among that life would be, it would be nothing without her, but at least I still have the memory…
on a personal note I was at this show… with her… how these three guys sing and rock at the same time is one of the great mysteries of the universe, when the cam shifts to the front row the guy shooting was right next to me, HOB puts on great shows… totally top notch and hell the restaurant ain’t too shabby either….
/angel as for days marked as these I was not meant to see but there she was anyway a lamenting angel a casualty of war
just in her eyes – read like history so far down forlorn skies gather clouds as my mind crosses hers o’ ancient one, accursed how long should you be punished how long to be trapped to dwell here between death and dawn knowing neither knowing you were wrong
notes… so something caught my eye, the corner, like a fish hooked I suppose, I saw into the soul of an angel, a fallen one of course, I have to be dramatic right? but in all seriousness this is a blink, a wink, something that flicked the switch in my mind, there is a bunch of themes in there for you to digest, so… enjoy (and feel free to discuss, because you know, I encourage such things)… and I did see something… didn’t I??
the night chorus is deafening, a competition? no, more like a party, a rave, perhaps to woo the parting season out the door, is september really up the block? hard to believe the speed of such things, and yet the plague remains making this all one strange stretch of life, will 2020 (with hindsight) become, in all memory, ‘the lost year of covid-19’, finding it’s way into global history like things ‘the dust bowl’ or ‘the great depression’, hard to tell when you are living the thing that will become a historical mark, back to the night outside, or more precisely surround, as loud as the din is (and it is) I find silence in the solemn solace slow march of the clouds, the half moon provides just enough light to watch the gentle behemoths sail on by, stars peek-a-boo, all covered with this loud blanket of bug noise on the ground level, I imagine this is what a hot swamp sounds like all the time, I can not say this is a pure lullaby but the longer I stay to listen, the sneak sooner this seems soothing, the world lays wet from a fresh storm just past moments ago, sparks, flashes of distant others occasionally light the corners of my visible box of sky, but always the sound, like an old coach’s silver neck whistle blown gently but every second without fail rhythmic, waves of this sound, in and out, up and down, tidal sound, I am gladly drowning in the aural sensation, only to be awakened, damn them, the damn devil mosquitoes, their minions making sure I am bound to not dull or not dwell in the symphony, or maybe they are the surrogates or the forward tentacles of the sirens, drawing me in so they may feed on my literal life blood, and I succumb as much as I can bear to endure the performance sung, the odd moth crashes into my hair, stopping there but with wings still flapping, so close to my ear as to hint at invasion into the my inner sanctum, sending skin bumps up and down my spine electric, hairs on end, discomfort, I twitch like a mare, and buck like a bull with a rider, I shake the stowaway loose, I try to again focus on the sky and sound combined, the inverted river flowing above in moonlight, but damn these blood-thirsty beasts, for at this party, no, for at this feast, I have presented myself as the main course, the last engorged orgy before the sleeping season, my legs like stalks of blood sausage presented, pulsing pods of insatiable distraction, and to prove an axiom I slap some flat, there are no free lunches here ya’ bums, and with that I retreat to my sweet air conditioned bubble… calgon, take me away…
a long winding day of work, not the worst day, not the best day, lying in that somewhere in between, not exhausted but might remark so if asked, and it was if the world were to tap me on the shoulder and say “hey stupid, look over here”, and so I did, among the quite unremarkable semi-industrial human-scape of hackensack nj, my own little Manhattanhenge of sorts, well, the effect of the sun at least it seems, and in popped the words “crested dawn”, not sure what it means but that is certainly the words that painted the scene for me, even if it was a sunset, in between two semi run down industrial buildings to the left of my office, and I must admit, I felt a sense of peace, a sly little smile crept in, the tank did not fill completely but there was some ponce de leon in there, that little slice of a moment to pause, I smiled and moved on carrying a bit with me…
Photo by Rok Romih on Pexels.com
had to stop by the local market for a few essentials before they close, and yes, sorbet (raspberry) is an essential if you must ask, back to my car, parked socially distant in the far part of the lot, I look up, there is a hazy fat crescent moon, hazy for one because of the humidity, fat crescent? well, when I think of a crescent moon, I think of a thin sliver, a cat’s eye glimmer, this was more on it’s way to a half moon, but not quite there, I guess this is 38.5% moon, doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue romantically now does it? but either way, not the moon we catch most often, or at least that I see or look up at with dreaming eyes most nights, sort of this hazy aberration, the aftermath of a very unsatisfying thunderstorm, summer thunderstorms can be wonders of relief, breaking open the humid grip and letting the night slide into comfort, not this one, all that was accomplished was making the street and ways wet, still the night is hot with summer sweat, the kind you can feel just enough like you are wading through as you walk, relishing the instant you can enter your car shell and flick the AC on, so I traverse back the usual way, slowing down where the cop always sits in that school lot, setting up for the one left I have to make before home, a green arrow lane also, bonus, or so I thought, there are cars in front of me, the light turns green, nothing motion, and then after what seemed like an eternal less than ten seconds, the guy in front goes straight, no signal, why bother when you are upsetting the apple cart of the world, and immediately my mind melted and screamed in a thousand tongues “A-hole” as I felt the rage build volcano strong, and then a pause, clarity, that same sly smile from before, slid back in, I remembered the little light show afforded me and grin from just an hour ago, and silly me, silly me, why fly into such a dumb rage, the whole ‘incident’ cost me not an age but a relative instant, I drove the rest of the way home quite amused at myself, the seriousness and the doubt, how easily I was led down a path of twist and shout, over the littlest of things, when I am surrounded daily by the most miraculous of things…
first. breakthrough. last. lasting. millennial to millions.
a fresh boot mark imprinted in the thick mud, or a bigfoot track revealed perhaps? impressions. a silhouette of a shadow boot mark on a pristine white floor, all the ridges, all the flaws, all the all, a step in time, that footprint on the moon, frozen in time (for our now), the fulcrum tips on the balance of an impression, or so we are told, but what about the hold, is that not more important than the toe dipped, the first impression can be the last, or a quick forgotten past, when it passes, how much is effort? how much is luck? as to what is stuck or what sticks permanently, all that we pack in to those moments, the anxiety, the hiding, the projection of what we want that footstep to be, crafting the stamp before the ink, a perception, a link to our own frailties, a created construct to the best of our abilities, sometimes the arrow will even pierce the mark, a bullseye hit out of the park, but to what end, the circus may come to town but not all will be amused, the pageantry, the showmanship, the acrobats fluid moves, but in the end maybe all that remains are the clown’s shoes, and I think of paleontology… a dinosaur’s footprint, left in the mud, on some seemingly normal every day creek or waterway, here now, encased in a forever millions of years later, how can I compete with that? or should I even bother? the mundane echo of an every day to stop and drink some water has lasted longer than mankind has even pondered… my life moments pass without so much wonder… or will I leave a footprint fossil of some kind… ? we all want to leave our mark, but look at what has actually survived… by chance…
often, ok, probably nightly I like to put on ocean sounds, not as good as the real thing but I not quite gotten to the point where I can afford an on the beach locale of my own for escape, so I take the next best thing, youtube that is, why the sea is a lullaby for me is a mystery, but it is, and I am not alone apparently if I look at clicks and hits, sorry, “views” in the youtube vernacular, so my mind was drifting, listening to a true recording translated into a faux ocean tide…
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…and I began to think of my hands, inside, trying to see the actual cells connected, to realize everything to scale, how I am truly a sum of parts, miniscule bits, all working as one, might I rival an ant farm, but hopefully not sitting on someone’s dresser for amusement or curiosity, to contemplate that there is actually space in between everything even our skin, although we do not perceive it, at some level it would be like looking at the solar system and-or our galaxy, so much space in between bodies and stars depending on from where you are observing, things are passing through me right now, yet I don’t feel violated, I wonder if I could ever perceive the situation or did we not develop this unneeded sensation for survival, I imagine the intersections, the traffic controls of flow, the plethora of little car wrecks that must go on in the millions, all the while I might be doing something utterly useless like playing a game on my phone, as the mini universe inside my hands explodes with activity, a boiling cauldron of possibility oddly – out of reach but certainly there, and then I think of the future, or the past, really the same in this case, one day the great tide of god will break me down to just molecules, and I will just become part of the shore once more, sand scattered on a line or in a form, until such time as I am gathered up again by the will of the same, my unique consciousness summoned again, the trillions of combinations that came before, all tallied up into this particular form, and soon, way sooner than I may like, broken back down to transform into other life as life will go on – without me.
for I am forced to observe my future, my fortune unfold, to post age-ed vessel in rush grey and white all colors have faded the exodus of light as the source grows dimmer a once blazing beacon now meagerly flickers cracks, wrinkles, crooked bent words repeated, forgotten, thoughts at a loss. to the memory of my dear mother or what is left I dare not to grasp too hard to break what remains to ash and yet a memory is all I will soon there have
with love, and thank you mom, your son.
notes… this was totally and utterly inspired by this post @ another blog, it was instant, it was done, it made sense, and also cut like a gun. age is a wonderful thing, time is a bastard robbing everything, do not confuse them as twins, understand them as best you can…
I must admit, I find a touch of solace (or wonder?) watching the milk bloom in my morning coffee, almost like experiencing the genesis of clouds in my own privately owned weather globe, until of course it becomes amorphous, which is only merely a few moments, but then stage two, caffeine kicks in… the phone is ringing, there goes the moment, back to ‘important‘ matters… (sigh)
for I am not truly escaping all human sounds, there is the occasional car, or neighbor walking their dog yammering on their phone, but much better than the din within the walls, of TVs with sports, a washing machine sanitizing dishes already clean, a dryer tumbling more coins than clothes, a phone ringing out loud with scams, for some reason, just tonight, an avalanche fell on the roadside of my mind, it all just became too much, too loud, maybe salvation resides in the mundane, taking out the sunday night garbage to the curb for pickup, a ritual that keeps you in line in your time frame prescribed, that even keel, how after days and nights of pouring 90s, how 70 degrees feels, so slight, the night crickets are not as loud as on those humid horrors, the swarming mosquito lions of this savanna are not as blood-thirsty, they even ask for reservations to dine, or so I imagine their disposition, there is a steady silent breeze, everything, everything is in motion, but calm, subtle undulation, as if receiving a gentle neck massage from ethereal unseen fingers, this is one of those moments I wish I could wrap up and hide, save for a more dire time, is this perfection? surely not, but much closer in that direction than the bulk of my days so far… this scene, a trigger, to make me breathe in deeper to capacity and past, to smell and taste and tap the very essence of now, all the plants seem relaxed in this bath, a return from a desert to a meadow, from far pendulum swing to the middle, I wish I could transfer all humanity into my now, the sweeping deep calm of this moment, like being held afloat by a warm loving ocean without any worry, worldly concerns left at the door behind me, just listening, listening, escaping the indoor sounds, for now.
Shades of My Garden 