Tuesday, May 31, 2016

Fata Morgana


For those readers that take joy in telling me, just act younger, and you'll feel younger... : I pinched a nerve in my back lifting one side of a piano, lifting it as any young man might. I was finally getting rid of the carpet that has been here since I dumbly bought it online and then had it delivered from Home Depot. 

For those readers that believe me to be almost gay, read that last sentence again. 

I rode my bike today in the heat, intentionally going more slowly than I would normally, trying to enjoy it. It was simply different, not decidedly preferable. Portions of the ride felt more endured than enjoyed. There is something about my heart beating wildly that still tickles something that I am in love with.

For those readers who like thumping things. 

I spend a fair amount of my time while riding also reminiscing. I have been doing a lot of it lately, too much perhaps. I enter a meditative zone easily when following fast a familiar route. The repetition buried in the act allows calming clarity in which voice gets to hear voice anew. When it is tranquil, when I can hold on to it, it leads to something that resembles wistfulness, a breath of suadade. 

I catch myself shaping again some smooth recollection in the dark, glossed by time, in defiance of fact. Lost and in lost love with some vanished thing that struck a glimmer within the inner-amber, preserved as outline of artifact. 

As the hill up to the vineyard approaches, the voice of skepticism gives rise, mounts yet again a sound argument, one not against validity, but of the privileging, the allowing. To resuscitate shadows long gone, worn as utensils. 

Some lack the capacity for self-honesty, others thirst the open opportunity of it. I am happy enough to have moments in which I permit them to be. When I am not abusing memory I can sometimes see the shape of self inside of it, recognizing the voice that speaks to be a mirage that tattles its tales of miraging.

I asked myself a question at the end of today's ride: Was it fun, or did you spend the whole time concentrating?

For those readers who like episodic adventure, we'll discuss q6-concentrate tomorrow.


1 comment:

  1. My friend who wrote "The Weight of Eden" has posted a new poem. It's rare that he does so I thought I'd share since you liked the last one.

    My son is in sort of a crisis. He suffers from depression and anxiety. He's so cool I feel so bad and wonder if I had anything to do with his situation. Anyway -- I sort of felt all three were connected in some way. Your post, my son & the poem.

    Fragments, Translation, and Shoulders

    My King, My King and sovereign. It is now past Midnight and yet no darkness remains. Your kingdom is gone, expelled from Eden, you are King no more, now subject just as I. Truly, the end already arrived.”
    -The Lyre of Elucydis Book III, 163-165

    A concerto or an Interlude, played out of key,
    ‘The Anatomy of the Immobile' Alibis, and Erin Rose.
    The lure of hailstorms, a banter of perfumed scarves
    Silences the trumpet and flasks.
    Burdened and weighed with saints and deity
    Posed; pure and perpetual. Safe
    From gambling hall gaze and watchful treason,
    And spells, murmured somewhere in forest, in swamp.

    Disclose the moon’s secret, address to the fallen king-
    The water stares electric and poised from stone to spill
    Into our correspondence of moments too few and too infrequent.
    The nocturne, the interlude- played where we stood in doorways,
    Stuck and strung like rubies,
    Our faces grazed the stars, and bled.

    Malabar, Lie down my ladder, until you flee my side with dawn.
    Flute and chime your allegory of all these matters preordained
    And scripted on the thinnest strings.
    Bind them on an inconsequential pyre, nothing gets better,
    Because nothing ever does. Maybe someday,
    We will awake- not in the gutters, not martyrs
    For lost fools and the dead pharaohs.

    In the southward bend of this shabby Seine,
    Of rail cars and time come to rust.
    Speckled with barrels and rotten dates in a long
    Funeral march across the heaving dunes.
    The clockhand clicks tracking time once again,
    The waltzes go silent, no water flows from stone.

    Once again thrown and tossed on tides of poison
    The sand itself threads needles and crabs seek shelter
    Beneath the rotting shore, there,
    Nothing speaks or whispers even all the more.
    A glance ephemeral at the sober gallows,
    And the bullets of intoxication,
    As our fingers cease to feel.

    The Salween River Fragment:

    Surely we will not turn east,
    No matter how the pilgrims bicker.
    We sank Lusitania, watched Waterloo.
    The pounding of shoes,
    These sirens and voices
    mourn the dead, drag them from grave to grave.
    But we, born of a tenser steel,
    Ground on stone and oiled with care,
    Fashioned blades for all battles.

    The whirlpool feeds the urchin,
    And devours his eggs- nest, mother and all.
    Bows and shields in conflagration,
    Weeping and pitiful. Dressed in rags.
    Never to emerge from the battle’s bronze blazing shadow.