Sunday, February 28, 2010
i think about us and our drifting poetries often- i am because we are. it's not necessarily the words written on paper, but it is how we live- the way we all swim indoors & the water that splashes up against our windows. That's why we will never feel as lovely in the outside world- you see the way everyone walks and runs like zombies-it's almost apocalyptic. sometimes this city is just dry air & a concrete street. but inside 1234 we are all swimmers and floaters. water slips through our fingers and holds us up like ships. graceful strength is the most beautiful kind and nothing embodies it quite like the buoyant bubbles that come up and burst from our blurred voices. there is something to be said about soft hands in winter, peppermint, a gray coat in everytime and anyplace & patience when people have no idea what it means to live for their shadow. you can at least laugh at it. stand atop a steeple and percuss a tune on my hips with twigs. i think someday & maybe soon, my heart will beat with that rhythm. i could be one of those people in a constant state of spiritual remembrance- some sufi/salinger aromatic thrill. we know no one could pick out phonies quite like HC and that's why i was terrified to meet him. thank god, he's just a character in a book i read once.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
today was the earliest i've woken up since my boston days, i hated it, but i just had to stretch. it was a stretch of a lake shore street and there WERE smoky billowed clouds hanging over these perfect waves made glassy with slushed ice and such. the leafless trees were distractingly beautiful. & you know my rubber wheels tend to drift as it is with such an aloof captainesse behind the wheel, but my car and i, well all of us, drift in exaggerated ways when there are brittle winter trees innervating the city's brain. i love, love, love how the branches curve like dancers and how their legend is so much granderrr- don't you feel it sometimes? the skeletal environment can be so charming & honestly so worthy of your attention- a public accordion would have been a particular kind of transportation for this morning and i couldn't help but hope to ride in one & to find my mom living in the orchestra village; in these last couple of days, i'm sure it's where she belongs - after all, when she quit playing the guitar as a 14 year old is precisely when she planted her seeds of paradise lost.