Tuesday, December 29, 2020

The Eyes of a Blind Horse

David Gilmour's second solo in Comfortably Numb. "Authority forgets a dying King" and other lines of Tennyson's that I've wondered about over the years. Shall we make it a threesome then?

Shoveling slower in my fifties but still happy to shovel. I remember drunk, I remember how it hurt after, looking at my hands and knowing what they'd done. A sliver of Lake Champlain forever in the mind.

How does one see through the eyes of a blind horse and yet in another sense, how does one see at all, if not through the eyes of a blind horse? Waxing gibbous moon high over the barn, soft in the hours before the snow starts. You close the bedroom door behind you, you pause and then remove your shirt before coming to bed.

Reading Tolkien in trees in my early teens. A blow is coming, I know it, I cannot adequately prepare for it, and yet. We "get right" with the Lord, we "get right" with our God and our wife, we vote the party line and we keep our rifles ready.

Dad making jokes I couldn't laugh at and how that hurt him so that when I did laugh in attempt at rectification it was as if I were laughing at his hurt (which only made everything worse) and at a late juncture I wonder if in fact I was. Rain in December and other anomalies. Everyone's in a rush to tell me what the fluorescent telepathic octopus signifies but I already know: he's a psychic manifestation of the Holy Spirit, itself a psychic manifestation of the impersonal intelligence that is not of - but creates - self. 

When you listen to my lies, when you listen to me sing. Whispering your name before coming, feeling your arms tighten around my shoulders. This was always the only choice, you see?

I carry the dead sparrow far from the back porch, laying it gently down beneath hemlocks nobody visits, and do not pray, for is not all I have done to this juncture a prayer? Your hair, the sun on your face.

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