Images
Riding the Marry-go-round
She turns the pages of the newspaper like a slap on a child’s wrist (not really seeing or reading, just looking, looking), leaves the outdoor restaurant; the deepest thing in her is Memories, which can, and will find their way out, once triggered—the day is long who knows. We build highways where people and she and folk’s like she seem never to get off of…she’s on one now. “God told me you’re after my heart…” the radio says, she hears it, but doesn’t blink an eye, she’s driving, thinking, trying to focus, listening, images and sounds flood her cerebellum. She hesitates, not sure which way to go, says, “I’m lost,” aloud, to herself, then sees something familiar, takes what she calls a short cut. She’s at home now, in her home, wants to see the sun; it is reflecting off some seams (seeping through and around a corner somewhere), if she moves the piano a tinge, she’ll see the whole thing; unconsciously, so it seems, she softly bends the curtains back, ‘…thin they are…’ (her mind reverberates), ‘…knifelike…’, through the glass she tries to focus… her garden is green, very green she notices—almost trance like. The sun shifts, she lost the light, twice she hesitated (a moment ago)—she’s confused, the sun, the piano, the green garden, all important things to her—were important things to her, at one moment (a moment ago); and in her life they were all in place at one particular moment (the warmth of the sun, the touch and feel of the curtains, the sight of the piano, and its potential, the breathing of the garden, its green reflections), each and every one, in their place (she had lost her focus on the highway, and at the café—each time producing a new outcome, each time only for a moment, a breath, but lost it nonetheless), had she moved the piano, any one of those things (perhaps all) would have produced a different outcome likewise, but she didn’t move, nor move the piano, and by not moving she changed everything. And so the moral of this poetic prose might be concluded as, moving or not moving produces an outcome, which one do you want? On the other hand, you’ll never know if you don’t move. #2128 1-7-2008
Riding the Marry-go-round
She turns the pages of the newspaper like a slap on a child’s wrist (not really seeing or reading, just looking, looking), leaves the outdoor restaurant; the deepest thing in her is Memories, which can, and will find their way out, once triggered—the day is long who knows. We build highways where people and she and folk’s like she seem never to get off of…she’s on one now. “God told me you’re after my heart…” the radio says, she hears it, but doesn’t blink an eye, she’s driving, thinking, trying to focus, listening, images and sounds flood her cerebellum. She hesitates, not sure which way to go, says, “I’m lost,” aloud, to herself, then sees something familiar, takes what she calls a short cut. She’s at home now, in her home, wants to see the sun; it is reflecting off some seams (seeping through and around a corner somewhere), if she moves the piano a tinge, she’ll see the whole thing; unconsciously, so it seems, she softly bends the curtains back, ‘…thin they are…’ (her mind reverberates), ‘…knifelike…’, through the glass she tries to focus… her garden is green, very green she notices—almost trance like. The sun shifts, she lost the light, twice she hesitated (a moment ago)—she’s confused, the sun, the piano, the green garden, all important things to her—were important things to her, at one moment (a moment ago); and in her life they were all in place at one particular moment (the warmth of the sun, the touch and feel of the curtains, the sight of the piano, and its potential, the breathing of the garden, its green reflections), each and every one, in their place (she had lost her focus on the highway, and at the café—each time producing a new outcome, each time only for a moment, a breath, but lost it nonetheless), had she moved the piano, any one of those things (perhaps all) would have produced a different outcome likewise, but she didn’t move, nor move the piano, and by not moving she changed everything. And so the moral of this poetic prose might be concluded as, moving or not moving produces an outcome, which one do you want? On the other hand, you’ll never know if you don’t move. #2128 1-7-2008
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