Thursday, August 7, 2008

Ongoing Confrontation With Eternity

Before I woke the twenty sentences were writing themselves. A linen head cover through which piled clouds were faintly seen, then the sudden - the jerking - drop. Ah, but soon it will all be over. "You know best, mon capitain." But ask: are angels ever hungry?

I'm in the market for a team of oxen. Next Christmas Eve I'll going shopping against all wishes, stopping at McDonald's to lend a hand with the rubbish. I've got this torn green t-shirt and with my black leather jacket, I look good. I look like "getting out." Yet for the right book would stop, go back, or even stay. The mating song of blue jays, how the light can be in June.

Yeah yeah - avoiding the subject, who doesn't? There was a small fire in one corner which necessitated the removal of an entire wall. Revealing at last one's powerlessness over architecture - I mean the true poverty, the illusion of, choice - also corn cob insulation. But in this new house still standing, which was next to door to E.D.'s - or was it hers? - not clear - I found a room which nobody else had found nor occupied for decades, many of them. Newspaper clippings hung on the wall, there was a piano that hovered in the air, its keys attached to no visible instrument, two doors and many windows. There were also plaster busts of her that when peered at closely made you want to look away.

I was loved at times but never liked and the difference is not negligible. You don't "unlearn" certain behaviors, you leave them by the side of the road. I too want a high room overlooking the world, an awareness of this ongoing confrontation with eternity - more than just a sip of the nineteenth century brew.

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