Monday, June 7, 2021

The Optimism of Angels

Some days you miss the band, other days it's just you on the front porch with a banjo, sun going down, rippling notes rising like the optimism of angels. What is missing when not even the insistence something is missing is missing?

A robin flies low across Main Street, just missing the grill of a black pickup going five maybe ten miles faster than the Good Lord - via the State of Massachusetts - intended. Salad with stuffed grape leaves, black bean chili with cheddar cheese.

Cold and wet means postponing the next phase of gardening, so goes the general consensus in our valley. It's odd to find that there are still hills on which to die, still crosses about which one says, yeah, that looks about right for a guy my size, do you have a hammer?

The way you describe a given problem is the problem, so language is always the solution, hence poetry. Behind fast-moving rain clouds, the moon.

Caverns in Jack's skull where last year there were eyes, but he still sees, of this we are sure. No more apple blossoms, no more crows.

I do not stumble praying the rosary, nor ever find Thérèse of Lisieux unhelpful, yet the formal institution from which both emerge remains antithetical to my project of remembering love in a loveless place. Wind after dinner, a reminder we are in the world and will be a while longer.

One gets into an argument - a heated one - with folks a mile or so away about the right balance between church and state. Clearing the flower garden of weeds under the watchful eyes of bees.

The neighbor's goats. Two days ago, coming in at 5 a.m. after getting high by the river, I felt the warm and happy presence of my father's mother in the kitchen, her way of being okay with everything via spirited narratives that included many heroes, including herself. 

Yet in another sense, Marsha Norman was correct (here rephrased), we are not our parents' child but rather what became of that child. A sense the stars give a shit about us, not ready to let it go, nor especially interested in defending it before skeptics.

Guys talking at the dump ten minutes before it officially opens about a guy up in Hawley who trains dogs to run bear and feeling like, fuck that guy. Me with my rosary, my faith it will all get better, these words in me akin to oxygen, soap bubbles of love. 

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