Wednesday, December 19, 2007

millions of miracles

to spin, to claw, to cry. out there window is a picture of the stone building across the street. it is past midnight but the sky behind it is a dirty grey, not black. the grey is not to be scorned. its an old grey - a grey that was above the stone building in 1910, the grey will endure until they knock down that building and the one i'm sitting in, the grey will come during the month of december 2076 in the early morning hours. it will always be in the past.

right now i am in the apartment that is in the present, and outside the weather is 1910. They are all dead of course. that our lives should be matters of bloodpumping love stunning at a breathing, colour gleaming, miracles by the millions, miracles of everything, the moving, unfurling skydrifting silent roar of every beat that pulse in harmony in love with your heart beat pulse, that our lives should the be business of exploring the far countries, of cracking open into fat shining eyes of mortal wisdom, miracles by the millions of everything, of building a cabin in an silverbirch forest made of swampwood smell of rotten trees, the heavy fertile musk,

well call ME a faggot, but in all our practical, sophisticated calculations of morality and aestethics we built a little web of a dry, pale future. its a future that will invite you to come along or stay behind alone. all all alone, where you can be a pretentious whiner in the basement apartment of your mind. up there we will be "doing alright" we will say we should not be blamed. weve done the best we can, i remember something out there, beyond the grey, the colour of the sky reminds me of it. something young and ancient, we did our jobs, maybe we did not learn to ride wild horses across a rain, maybe we did not canoe down the Mackenzie River singing french songs, maybe the best i could do was just to hold it all together just to take of myself and not be a burden, to stuff art and craftsmanship into a cafeteria tray, oh eyeless dreams. but dont blame me, because im not a great hero. i learned i was no hero long ago when i shook hands with cowardice. dont blame them, when they say dont blame me because i shunned the beautiful world, it was too hard to look at, you can see it in their eyes, or your eyes: its death somewhere down the road waiting for them that drives them there, the loneliness of dying with no meaning. they seek wombs of all kinds. do not sneer at them, with cold death perched like a bird on a branch above their road, watching, watching, watching.

In the agonizing dark when the lights go off and there is a great huge space between you and the ceiling that contains future trails and past trials, go on open your eyes, the dark that never speaks, never answers your questions or pleas, but sits there silent - sometime stark and immobile, sometimes covering and warm. the futures are different, the pasts are mostly painful. the present is a question, when am i going to die? what will the world go on to be? What will the people i know go on to do. they will forget me, and sometimes remember. but they will never remember me as intensely as they spoke to me, as they slept with me. All the beings in 1910 are somewhere or nowhere. I like to reach into the past sometimes and seek people similar to me. A woman in 1877 who looked at the grey sky and thought the same, maybe while drinking tea and thinking about her past. I used to have a crush on Emily Bronte, because she thought about a lot of the same things i do. i wonder if it occurred to her there might be a fellow that she would really like, but would be born a couple hundred years later. Theres a beautiful fellow who does not belong in his time in a workcamp in the Temagami, circa 1903.

and now, my fellow future ghosts. i was reminded of the beautiful world that is such a narrow path, to be distracted is to lose it again for months. it is a sacriledge to not revere the declicate sense of that far place, but a frail truth is always more despised than a passionately believed lie.