(a whisper)

november soon

It's a secret
sky and you're
hanging there,
up there,
like
wind standing
still, like


You're a kite and soaring
You are so beautiful

- look at all your colors -

How could someone
not see you?
I can only
look up


Be this freedom,
and remember me

Be this freedom,
and forget me

stay close


I will let you
go, I will
let you

go


I will never let you go

because i like clouds

song of the day (loomings)

Pink Floyd - Cluster One


(the waterside it was. where i sat. looking out.

there was a sun all right. hanging low and tired but in tune with the world. she was only slightly hidden behind a broad, long-drawn shroud of cloud, starting somewhere in the infinity hovering above the horizon in front of me, and ending way behind me, way above me. a cloud thick enough to pale this light into a pastel shine. a cloud thin enough to interweave with the almost reddening sun, almost painting a Turner.

it should have been an abomination how waterside industry mingled with the original inhabitants: trees and all sorts of plants. but it wasn't. it just fit. windmills generating electricity. low and heavy buildings of certain unknown functions. a valley of electricity pylons on a peninsula.

oh, and water.

water like the piano notes. slow, meandering. mesmerizing. me.

water like the carefully singing guitar, blinking notes somewhere in between joy and sadness.

thoughts and branches floating downstream along the river, ignoring anything in their path. if they got stuck, they got stuck. if not, they kept on floating toward what would one day be the sea somewhere. hard to believe that. no sea in sight. just the river.

so gently the drums. they don't intervene, they don't disturb. they just merge.

the image was so big, as if it was the largest photograph i have ever seen. every microscopic fragment of my retina saw everything at once; what i perceived had the span of the world and i even saw myself sitting in it, like a small Friedrich figure. the scene enveloped me as i tried enveloping it vice versa.

somewhere in between joy and sadness. the music. but peace. so much peace. how i miss sitting there. how i will always be sitting there.

oh, and at one point: three hot air balloons. against the evening sky.)

Bordando el Manto Terrestre

we lose skin cells constantly. we shed hairs without end. our body scatters and renews. i wonder. how spread out have i become by now? how much of the world are the lost and dissipating remnants of me seeing by now? have i become beaches, mountains, rain? and in the overlaps with every one else, in the overlaps with every other spread out self, is there some kind of connection? some kind of love perhaps? some unity? are we all the great, big blankets covering this earth together, yet never looking at one another, as if to deny this?

happiness # 41

the smell of autumn rain on streets littered with leaves.


almost-black tree trunks contrasting with yellow leaves.


the variety of colors portrayed by later-in-the-year leaves.


leaves, leaves, leaves. and leaves. as if right before dying, they are at their prettiest.


maybe the singular should be "leave", not "leaf".


(they will fall. )

happiness # 40

breaking through the remnants of a half-begun dream, shimmying into a twilight of wake and sleep, extending your hand out into the deep-hungering darkness around you for no particular reason and finding a warm, purposeful cat you can stroke. doze off.

nice cd cover # 7

Radiohead - In Rainbows

it's long and beautiful and worth it (parts of this reminded me of my post 'Planets, Oceans', too)

"But I have seen the City do an unbelievable sky. Redcaps and dining-car attendants who wouldn't think of moving out of the City sometimes go on at great length about country skies they have seen from the windows of trains. But there is nothing to beat what the City can make of a nightsky. It can empty itself of surface, and more like the ocean than the ocean itself, go deep, starless. Close up on the tops of buildings, near, nearer than the cap you are wearing, such a citysky presses and retreats, presses and retreats, making me think of the free but illegal love of sweethearts before they are discovered. Looking at it, this nightsky booming over a glittering city, it's possible for me to avoid dreaming of what I know is in the ocean, and the bays and tributaries it feeds: the two-seat aeroplanes, nose down in the muck, pilot and passenger staring at schools of passing bluefish; money, soaked and salty in canvas bags, or waving their edges gently from metal bands made to hold them forever. They are down there, along with yellow flowers that eat water beetles and eggs floating away from thrashing fins; along with the children who made a mistake in the parents they chose; along with slabs of Carrara pried from unfashionable buildings. There are bottles too, made of glass beautiful enough to rival stars I cannot see above me because the citysky has hidden them. Otherwise, if it wanted to, it could show me stars cut from the lamé gowns of chorus girls, or mirrored in the eyes of sweethearts furtive and happy under the pressure of a deep, touchable sky.

But that's not all a citycape can do. It can go purple and keep an orange heart so the clothes of the people on the streets glow like dance-hall costumes. I have seen women stir shirts into boiled starch or put the tiniest stitches into their hose while a girl straightens the hair of her sister at the stove, and all the while heaven, unnoticed and as beautiful as an Iroquois, drifts past their windows. As well as the windows where sweethearts, free and illegal, tell each other things."


- Toni Morrison, Jazz

song of the day (obscured by clouds)

Ludovico Einaudi - Fly


(it's dark here. shun light.

just a few rhythmic piano notes. they’re in minor.

they get company. but these newer notes only emphasize. they do nothing but sculpt the negative space around this stretched-out, claustrophopic solitude. they repeat themselves. vicious and tender.

we hope light. and somewhere, light is breathing. telling us we’re there. telling us we're here. we’re not forgotten. here, in the darkness. where we shun ourselves. where we must be winter.

but no note rises. they fall, all of them. fall, and disappear. until nothing is left. and that empty residue embraces us.

just a brief flicker of hope again. there is an echo? there is an echo.

a repeat. a rhythm.

how can we think of the sky when all we see is this? when all we see is a room within a room within a room?

i hide between these notes, look for a place, a niche, where i cannot be found by myself any more. but the notes disappear. they fall. fall and disappear.

somewhere, someone is screaming. muffled voices. how i wish to be inside my head. how i am inside my head. everything becomes an echo. everything becomes momentum. but there is no beginning. only the echo. only the momentum.

only the scream now; only.

and i think. hope. yes, these are notes in minor. but we’re not forgotten.)