Writing under cosmos hung to dry in the kitchen, the sentences slow but fluid, like Bronson Brook in the middle of summer. We are all antiques.
Certain books - A Course in Miracles, Ascent to the Depth of the Heart, John's Gospel - so full of book marks it makes you rethink reading altogether. Women with whom we are happy lingering, talking about nothing in particular as night falls around us.
Tiny ferns near the back porch stairs encased in frost, lovely in a paleolithic way. The many ways in which our minds receive and offer Venus.
She undresses near the door, gazing at me in a way that means I cannot take my eyes off her eyes, each article of clothing folded and set on the dresser, the moments extending into a single unified infinity, her nakedness entirely peripheral to the power of the shared gaze on which she insists - which she creates - and in which I realize at last and with utter clarity that we are none of us bodies. Pan-fried trout at dusk and other old joys.
Half a dozen Macintosh apples in a wooden bowl on the counter, reminding me that in a past life I painted watercolor still lifes, and made a decent living until a late affair with a neighbor taught me that life is not actually still. Invisible angels pray at the lake, their voices a low melodic hum you have always wanted to hear.
Flu shot season. Cold brown rice with half a dozen dolmathes for lunch.
We drive into Northampton talking about family, holidays, cannabis and money. The afternoon passes roasting a turkey which, when finished, I am uninterested in actually eating.
That juncture where you realize no form will ever truly satisfy - will never bring you the peace and creative freedom for which you long - and the humility and willingness that become you then. Both horses whinnying at dusk.
Chiseling ice off the windshield, waiting for Chrisoula to uncover the kale so we can drive to the transfer station. The way that we forge relationships never changes, and in this is a clue to what we are in truth.
And how after - when she had fallen to sleep - my body grew still and rock-like, exactly as my father's had in death - and I saw the way it was merely an aperture through which living passed, perfectly beautifully neutral. You tell the mushrooms you're done, it's over, no more, and the mushrooms form an interior chorus somewhere near the center of your right shoulder and gently sing their well-known hymn We'll Be The Judge Of That.
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