I’d like to move light around. .. I would blow some your way, a comet of daylight streaking to you…light the sky and burn everything along it’s unearthly path. If light is a particle, why can’t we move it? You were always better at physics. I know light can be bent, like so much truth.
It’s so hard to be two things at once: particle and wave. It’s difficult to believe two things at once, hope and despair. Lover of light, lover of rain. I know, you’re not a lover of rain anymore, but you once were. Before Portland. I see nightly weather reports: streets are flooded, pines dripping. Very windy here, branch-breaking- windy, chair-overturning-windy….and very light outside, bright cold. Little white storm clouds circle in a Crayola sky-blue sky.
November light is weird. I’m refracted, I’m prism-ed split, magnified and obfuscated, distorted, kaleidoscoped, a chipped crystal heart prisming colors on the ceiling….that’s me.
We must talk about light, we’re from the “Valley of the Sun.” Why is everything so poetic? Maybe it always was, but we missed it. Miss it. The Valley of the Sun, Death Valley, El Paso, the Rio Grande, Mesa, Camp Verde. I adore those places. Now at high altitude, I feel sunlight like a sword, I’m the lyric “lady fair.” So British. Burning easily. Burned.
“She shoots colors all around/ like a sunset going down/ have you seen a lady fairer? “/ She comes in colors everywhere … ” / -She’s a Rainbow, Rolling Stones
Ironically enough, speaking of noses, or sunburns, or light, one my favorite stories is Gogol’s, The Nose, written two hundred years ago. Skin cancer took a bit of my cute English nose ten years ago, left me a scar. The connection there being sunburn. I was fond of my nose, as I suppose most people are, especially if they are not giving it up willingly. The doctor massacred it…or it seemed then. My nose, walked away, probably grabbed by a hawk or an owl…..wait, that’s Gogol.
I earned that scar from sunburns on those tubing trips down the Salt River. We put on sunscreen, wore hats…but not often enough, or not knowing enough at 17. Did we know anything at 17? At Seventeen. We listened to music constantly, and I remember all of us yelling out “Bye bye, Miss American pie …….good old boys drinking whisky and rye, this’ll be the day that I die...” Steve pounding drums on the roof….Bob driving, Jill… they fade into the shadows of time. Black and white memory, monochrome maybe….full Kodachrome 80’s.
At seventeen, we knew next to nothing, or maybe more than we know now. I know, you’ll say, (I agree we knew) “BUT, we knew light was both particle and wave.” Remember how we laughed with our feet in the water? Wearing beat up sneakers because of the glass in the riverbed from broken beer bottles would’ve cut our feet. The current carried away our sunglasses. We smuggled cans of our parents beer, we swam and carried on….only noticing the sunburns too late, as the sun went down. Careless, caring less. An absolute abandonment of what might be. If we could move light, we could go back. I understand it’s not free anymore, and you have to take a bus….or so I’ve read.
“…lose your dreams and you may lose your mind, ain’t life unkind?” Ruby Tuesday, – Keith Richards
Darkness should provide cover, a blanket we pull up for protection, an estuary, or, aviary, or reliquary, since neither of us are saints, and we’ll get to birds later, at least a sanctuary where we, like our Neanderthal ancestors, cave born, chew bones by the fire. If darkness no longer casts us into the spell of dancing or glitter, and short black dresses, at least it should give us a fireplace and some brandy, firelight to keep and tend. Because almost nothing is as pleasing as tending a fire.
Darkness a monster in the night, thing under the bed, or worse, regrets that fill the blackest, sleepless 4.a.m. We’ve both lived through the charring of the soul– a quick flash of sleep drops like the wings of an angel. But it’s not the deep black that’s killing you, I think it’s the grey.
Lover of light, lover of rain. Despite the relentless rain, part of you must love rain the way a Saguaro loves a monsoon, but without contrast it’s all grey, and no, not 50 shades. To hell with 50 shades, it doesn’t work. We’re all both….sometimes we want to dance, sometimes to sleep. And nothing’s a game. Grey becomes not just the world, but the life. Symbiotic cactus wren weaves through the sharp spines. Green Saguaro only covets water in August. Duality by nature. Desert and thunderstorm, thirst and swamped.
Poetic hates the practical, and the artist cusses the business man. ..don’t care what you say, you can’t do both without losing your mind. We’re light absorbed in a yes/no black/white whirlwind world. What I want is wind through trees, transient, transcending this.
Past tense. “…yesterday don’t matter if it’s gone.” Moonlight reflected on the lake with the paddle boats, EnCanto Park, even now, but not now. Rather, not anymore. I called it Enchanted Park as a child, but already time was gnawing it into oblivion. Red hibiscus and pollen covered olive trees, green mallards and crumbling bread crumbs. Swings and carousel horses. A calliope. A kaleidoscope. Things from long ago, as if long ago were anything but memory. Be careful, it’s easy to get trapped there.
In Colorado, vast plains scream endlessly with an unmitigated wind. Tall grasses blow in the drainage ditches. Little yellow birds dip through like all they want to do is sing. “all I want to do is sing.’ No, it’s “I just want to bang on the drum all day” ….remember? I long for a city street like yours in Portland, music drifting through the air, girls selling flowers on the street corners. The soft wind blows and blows, and then blows more, gains strength, reportedly drove pioneer women, alone in their sod huts, to nervous breakdowns. The same brain damaging wind drives me home every day. All the black cattle on the plains hunker down in lowlands near fences. Still, confess I’m grateful for the blue sky.
Would that I could run the world on windmills. I would start a wind farm, call it Sancho Panza’s, ah, but there I go again chasing dreams, or windmills, as they say.
I lay awake listening to the wind; a branch thuds against the eaves of the house.
“…and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?”
― Vincent Van Gogh
I was up in the mountains this weekend, feeding my gambling addiction. I went alone and played cards mostly. It’s a pretty drive, pine trees and treacherous curves. I played a poker tournament with 43 players and came in fifth. I think that’s the part I like the best now, coming in ahead of the men. What a terrible thing to say. Put a woman on a dollar bill, then we’ll talk, gentlemen.
Personally, I think Ruby Tuesday was a one night stand, probably Keith’s since he wrote the lyrics…..probably didn’t know her name…. so called her Ruby Tuesday…maybe it was a Tuesday. Mabye there was a Linda Thursday. He said his grandmother’s name was Ruby.
“Who could hang a name on you?
Present tense. “When you change with every new day still I’m gonna miss you” On the way home, I stop for a –guess they’re called– a herd, of big horn sheep. Cattle or buffalo come in herds, not big horn sheep. They come so close to my car that I can see the grooves on the ram’s curled horns. Sleepy and half-broke, or broke and half-sleepy, I pause to watch the fellow climb quickly up the rocks. He is a rock star ram, a Mick Jagger or Keith Richards of a ram, agile and a little smarmy, with a bunch of young girls by his side. Big lips and a weather worn face. I look in the rearview. Four cars stop behind me. No one honks. I have to say it again, no one honks. The ram takes his own time leaping up the dirt and rocks, agile, like the wind. I gain a little faith in humanity. We watch from our cars.
Our task must be to free ourselves… by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature and its beauty.”
― Albert Einstein
Future tense. From ten this morning until five, I haven’t looked out of a window. Tonight, by the time I leave work and walk to my car, dark will be falling. Cold winds will howl across the parking lot across miles and miles like an anti-sun, to scatter leaves and heave the earth around, to encircle my car where my gloves are waiting for my frozen hands. Sweet nature, not cooperating tonight. It leaves me standing with my car keys in the cold and dark of an empty parking lot, hands too cold to pull the door handle. As I drive home, the sun is almost down…the streetlights sparkle and I catch a pair of wings landing on the top of the closest. I look to see the horns of an owl silhouetted against the descending grey night. Sweet, horrible nature, this owl in the night. I mean beautiful, sweet, beautiful owl, silhouetted against sky, fading into the deep star-lit canopy over Earth. I need that owl to give me her wisdom. Fly on down owl.
Past, present, future, sets of threes