Friday, November 13, 2020

Reimagined yet again

Leaves slip, meet the damp soul of their maker, and the shadowy carapace of empty bee hives hang in the maple trees like visible warnings. Another age encroaches. What we are is a kind of context embedded in a context embedded in a context which, just because it's true, doesn't also mean it's not bullshit. Fried onions and mushrooms, bacon and homemade barbecue sauce, Jeremiah and I eating hamburgers standing at the counter, a bag of chips between us, talking about how you talk about what you don't know enough to talk about. Angus Young, Randy Rhoads, Mark Knopler, more or less in that order. I fall asleep reading, dream of the homilies he gave, so sincere and formal and and stiff, and wake up with Moby Dick on my chest and a headache. I have my father's lips and his tolerance for pain, everything else is a gift from my mother and by extension her father, both of whom are damaged fighters. In the swale, every color bleeds out, every note is muffled, and even so, even so. In the morning, the blind horse steps delicately up the slope, nosing the ground for tossed hay, and I call him in low tones even though I know it's not my voice that moves him forward. Mist in the pasture in late October. Miss being kissy with you more than I can say, miss the sense of coupling with you, coordinating over the distance to sustain and nurture the great love that is also bleeding out. "That - right there." And: "I know, I know." The charitable impulse reimagined yet again, and beyond it the generosity of those who no longer perceive distinctions. 

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