Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Resurrecting Night.

First there was the flower.
One dying. One squeaking through
the birth canal. Bloody. Old and new.
The aroma was nothing to write home about.
But the bees came anyway. Petals grew.

Night Ressurrection

I've never been to see the bats.
It's quite possible that Austin has been famous for years.
Centuries or at least even decades and I've just missed it.
Caught in the undertow of imaginary East Coast / West Coast beefs.
Yankee snows and Lobster rolls and working hard to keep my service
to a minimum. Failing at least at that. Even southern stints missed
Texas much like I've missed those damned bats. But they're everywhere.
On the telly. In everyone's mouths. I don't hang with the crowd that asks
about the Longhorns last (successful? eh, who knows.) season. But I often
get asked about the bats. (eh, who knows)


Thank god this pastoral calm has me reading Bailey's Cafe. I've no idea how I've forgotten it. Perhaps when I first read it, it was in my sleep. I wonder how much of my life I've conducted in my sleep. Too much I assume. Waking up is painful. Creaky. And it seems sometimes, much to the consternation of those who would support me, that the universe has this pesky way of conspiring to keep me from reaching for my best self. Or at least, or perhaps, it simply demands that if I'm going to reach, I'd better reach hard and cover my face cuz it's throwing everything it's got at me.

If I'm gonna get to any sort of promised land, says god, you've got a helluva desert to cross. Fucking dilettant.


Sheeeeeit. That ain't me, says Universe. That's your own fucked up beliefs and road blocks. Remember? When you were sleeping? You're a helluva Mason in dreamland.

So yeah. A nomad. A yankee. A camel herding water follower. A restless wanderlust. A woman without a homeland or perhaps a few too many. But I recognize this kind of land when I see it. The blinking stop light. (Much like the one that almost took my life, the day after I received my drivers license. Flashcut to flashing lights: "Do you know your name?" "Hey! Girl! What's your name? What's the date? What's your phone number? Does your mother know where you are? Hey! Girl! Do you know your name? We're gonna get you outta here. Don't you worry." -- stop the jaws of life long enough to please "Please. Don't call my mom...")

Yeah. I know these blinking red lights. These soft, curving roads. These whispering trees. and insects. Ponds full of fish in the back yard. But isn't it all a bit of romantic gunk? Imaginary? I spent as much time as ever, which is never enough, in my father's back yard this month. About 2 days total. About 2 hours total. And then, again, the plane. the plane. the freaking planes. I hate to think it, but these days, when I remember the saying that flying is safer then driving I realize that I think they're referring only to people who actually drive more than they fly. I tell you. I've gotta drive more. Freaking gas prices.

Funny. Remember when $3.05/gall was like outrageously expensive? I think it was last week or the week before. Outrageous.

4.939 -- f u

Yes. That's what I saw in the desert. Actual "highway robbery" -- $4.93/gallon. Was that last week? Or the week after? Or yesterday? I can hardly keep track anymore.

But here. These Walden Pond fields, these morning roads, these turkey-filled forests, this is bringing me back to myself (note to Erica & Naomi: "Whatever that means!"). Thank heavens.

Everyone I love, gimme a minute. There's a shell breaking. It's not one of those shells that protects you before birth. It's more as one made of ice that collects because you're moving through fast through the high atmosphere. Cracking. Thawing.

Night resurrecting. Missing Penz is something I could hardly imagine doing. But has it been days or weeks? I remember somehow managing to be present with the art day in New York, even on some plane, one of the 2 dozen planes I've been on in the past couple of weeks. But then ... presence fell away in light of survival.

But no. Now. Here we are: Resurrecting Night. Filling up our moon belly. Art Day by Art Day, in these things I pray. Come along if you wanna; you don't even have to kneel. I've heard though, that sometimes it helps.

No comments: