“Always Summer” Terry Davies & BBC Philharmonic Orchestra
When I listened, my fingers felt like hummingbirds.
the seeds, the trees
"But once in a while there's a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, 'I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper.'" – Richard Bach
Month: October, 2012
October 10, 2012
Pretty puppy
The heavy woman with short, blonde hair and a red face and ugly jeans says, “What a pretty puppy! Are you a pretty puppy? Yes, that’s a pretty puppy!” when I walk by with my dog that has white fur and light feet.
When I walk by, I am close enough that if I stretch out my arm I can touch her. I am pleased when she compliments my dog, even though it is eight years old and not a puppy.
Still, I am pleased. I think my dog is pretty, too. So when I have almost passed her and the small synapsis between us has nearly disappeared, I loosen my grip on the leash in my hand and let my dog walk towards her and press its nose into her jean thighs that I imagine are soft and warm and stale.
She immediately raises both her hands in surrender, and although she does not stop smiling, I see the muscles in her face that created the smile slacken, and everything grows still like she has switched off her head and is ready to remove it.
I shorten the leash again and pull my dog away from her. I keep walking, angry now with the woman who said my puppy was pretty but who I now suspect was lying, who could have thought my puppy wasn’t pretty at all, and wonder when I will forget her.
October 7, 2012
Blue city
I walk fast through the blue city so I cannot see the sky or what grows around me or what is beneath my feet,
except when I trip and look down with umbrage at the small, loose brick that has betrayed me.
Then I am off again. Nearly running somewhere I don’t want to go or have to be on time getting there.
I slow when I pass the graveyard where babies lie with lambs on their graves.
So quiet I can’t help but breath loudly, to make a sound of the living among so many dead. And at this time the trees are dead, too, and I wonder if the birds wait in evergreens or the buried miss their song.
the seeds, the trees 