Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Give Caroling A Try
If I go to bed late - say 3 a.m. - then I don't wake up until well after 8 and the writing suffers. If you write it, you will remember it, and if you remember it, then it is happening right now. "You have to feel more than think." The apartment was too small for sauteed chili peppers but there I was, spattered with hot butter, wooden spoon in hand, humming a tune I think was maybe Paganini. There was something in it that resembled forgiveness. Something in it of moonlight, too, or possibly clover right after it rains. The light changed, blue to red, or so it seemed in that particular state. Chemistry has its way with us, there's no better way to say it. "Have a perfect day,"she said and then, clearly responding to something in my eyes that alarmed her, "but no pressure or anything." That was - let me see now - twenty-four years ago and counting. A birm or a "thank you ma'am." Brochures on the floor, a broken spice rack, static cackling on an antique transistor radio. Basically we live about four times as long as our cats, she said, and he decided on the spot to make amends with his daughter whom he hadn't seen or spoken to in nearly a decade. Pissing against stone, watching it spatter, lost in thought. Down by the brook, I spied a chickadee staring into the sun. A little house in the far field, one with smoke pouring from its chimney, the smell of salt pork and cider sifting over the soft snow. Allow me to introduce the wreath-maker who has decided to give caroling a try. Some people see better in the deep blue night and not everyone with eyes can see in the first place. A quality that any fortune teller is obligated to have. What I am saying is, all words are always searching for envelopes, and we can learn much about immortality from them.