Monday, June 13, 2022

Dogs Coming Out of the Void

Always wanted to love nursery rhymes more than I do. Rain that near dusk turned briefly to snow, lights going on up and down Main Street. What one learns when one goes slowly through Advent. Something about Florida, something about doom.
Something about a clock.
Sitting in hot sand gazing over calm seas, overwhelmed by distance and depth: childhood. My mother talks about how poor we were, but how happy we were, and my body shrinks and wraps itself in ancient hurts, and that night I cannot sleep. Dead dogs coming out of the void to remind me I am loved. Mist falling off the water.
Driving at dusk through a familiar city. Blue lights in the heart of all passersby.
Guests everywhere.
Imagine being a stranger unto your own heart.
I remember making donuts for my father – they tasted just like what I remembered growing up in Aunt Muriel’s kitchen – and he took one bite and said it didn’t taste at all like those donuts and I apologized, I wonder why I apologized.
Look closely at A Course in Miracles and see that it does not invite you at any juncture to investigate your childhood, your family history, your genetics and ask two question: one, what does it ask you to investigate and two, why. And clouds move across the mountain, and the mountain moves across my mind.
Faint melodies, fainter lyrics. Quesadilla madness. Old mattresses.
That time we held hands by the river, that time you put your head on my shoulder.

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