Sunday, September 19, 2021

Being Winterish, Aquarian

What is lightning to a blind horse? With what are we in relationship? What does it mean to say there is only one question and therefore only one answer?

Writing in the kitchen, second cup of coffee and the darkness deepening, grateful beyond measure that happiness is finally possible. 

A spiritual practice predicated in part on punctuation (e.g., what happens in the space created by an ellipsis, what energy is generated by a comma, what baroque fantasy does the semicolon evoke).

The waiting is actually not the hardest part, since everything is given all at once, but it's still a good song, one that my son understands musically in ways I do not.

At night, before sleep, I tuck my glasses into the arms of a teddy bear who sits on the low bureau Chrisoula painted blue. Lamb souvlaki with rice at Glendi, followed by a dozen or so loukoumades and an awkward conversation in the parking lot. Alone, not alone - what's the difference?

Puzzling over the apparently universal association of the quality of sex with temperature, i.e., the hotter the better.

Being winterish, Aquarian, given to summits and the way one sees the world when ascending great heights. Anticipating long drives and the visits and relationships created thereby. Unexpectedly bereft of a lifetime's worth of vinyl.

Can one be good at walking to the river? A poem is not just anything yet I'm reluctant to assert that it's this and not that. Fallen fences in the side yard signifying internal shifts with respect to what we can talk about with others.

And rippling clouds spitting rain passing leaving clear views of the blue depths in which we remember what we are in truth. A little after five a.m. the roosters begin, their calls echoing up the valley, a morning song, a this-is-a-new-day song.

Horses stepping through the last of the buttercups. Monarch butterflies, even in the city where we meet for lunch, finding ourselves on benches in the park, somehow farther apart than we'd expected.

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