Wednesday, August 18, 2021

On Being a Companion

And then it was August. Liquid green light. One reaches an understanding begetting deep calm or it just what Jack Gilbert called - here paraphrased, possibly wrongly - "acquiescence to death beginning." New world, new rules. 

We observe that God attends all life, and that we are not other than life, and therefore fall under God's care and protection. Bridges of flowers. New England river towns in which hollowed-out structures of industry remain viable, relative, photographable. Baby steps, then strolling, then ballet beneath the stars, 'cause why not.

Morning sun streaming through the last hemlocks ever. When will sorrow not insist on being a companion, mine?

Part of writing is noticing you're writing as well as - simultaneous with - writing writing. Dangerous bends in the river. How we remain attended by a long-dead aunt that none of us met nor can picture.

What's perilous, possible, palliative.

What's morning gin.

Is it light or heat I am feeling? Blue glass plates, bottles and tea cups.

Cape Cod beaches, bay side off-season, catching hints of what was and will not ever be again. While at the top of the tree something is glimpsed and the glimpse is conditioned upon agreeing to never glimpse it again, but me, I lied, and so I see it every day. 

Favorite song by a woman probably Sinnerman by Nina Simone, favorite fiction character as a child Joe Hardy, favorite season fall, staying in to going out, and dogs, always dogs, and you. 

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