Thursday, September 24, 2015

Recordando la tierra juntos

The leaves are changing, as are the winds. 

This morning, the boy and his mother departed for a city in the desert. I've never understood Phoenix, nor the people who would wish to live there. It is a hellish place, populated with the culturally indifferent. Everything there is a single unappealing color, a beige phlegm which has dried and hardened. It is where the old and infirm move to celebrate the unveiling of shopping malls or car dealerships.

To breathe the warm air, to become dust, one with the dust of one more sunset.

This weekend Cato and I will go camping in Big Sur. There is a music festival there, a songwriter whose work I have just begun to become familiar with. I wish to get away. Idle hands, devil's workshop, etc.

It is pleasant to see the leaves changing across the hills, like a shadow of color moving slowly across the land in all directions.

I thought that I would miss writing here more than I have. Perhaps it is complete, whatever it was I had hoped to do is done, to prove to myself that I could stick with something if I so chose. 

What does it all mean. I do not know.

I did not "miss" it. Something felt incomplete about not writing, though I could think of very little to say, nothing some days, and have nothing much to say today. Or write, to be more exact.

Love hinders the impulses that do not directly serve it. There is nothing to blame. Happiness is not very interesting. The search for it is; its absence says far more than its presence. 

I am happy. 

See? It doesn't do very much on the page. 

Anguish has a way of adorning itself with language.

I started to write a poem, in Spanish. Or rather, I was writing individual lines in English and translating them into Spanish, hoping to complete a poem in another language. It was more difficult than I first thought and I ended up with only suggestive fragments. I was not able to complete it. Have not been able to yet, anyway.

The woman in whom I am in love, pictured above, understood that it concerned the act of sex. She was quite right. It was scribbled for her.

Me, of course, wanting to offer her something about myself that I can, or thought that I could. She and I, remembering the land together.

Empujando hacia adelante y hacia atrás suavemente, juntos, 

Entonces aparte 

Tú y yo, 
recordando la tierra juntos