...I carry with me these dissimilar seconds, the quiet that appears and slides like memory, one always competing with the one before, busily musing my lives all at once. The miles roll by beneath me, steel wheels, the tired blue berber carpet, these listless and frozen faces. I'll be there in eight stops, no nine, small exchanges flanked by larger ones, words my necessary company, ideas struggling to outlive my attention, my memory. Some of this will sound familiar. How many times I've been here, done this, changing pens for ink, for the feel of a fountain pen on my pysche. Cars form, connecting the rectangles along the freeways, the red white and blue motifs, reocurring feeling we're using up our resources too quickly. It can't last. When things fall apart it is becuase the center cannot hold, the duldrum of circles, of hand shapes batting shadows still, massaging currents from inexact air to change slowly from the now to the end of being upright.
In this new beginning place I carry with me opportunity to breathe, to exist in all the moments that have yet to live, to draw breath in and let loose the daggers of mind, our troubled past, the uneasy and the unimportant words the build like bricks, like palm fronds, those spiny limbs that refuse to let go of this world no matter how great the next.
These lights remind me some things can last, they have to, the world of moving and slowing, of pushing ideas to replace quarantees that must fail if we are to ever dream again or feel free from the end.
When words travel outward there is pause in sunlight and shadow, breath from the creation that is and isn't the way in from the tangle of not knowing. Sometimes the dead and dying follow us too closely, they want in, to nurture is to be close, to breathe in the good air and let go of the bad.
This is the beginning place where birth and death live sometimes stumbling, always in for the long score - words, just simple ink that tells us where we've been and where we've yet to go.
