Saturday, April 07, 2007

I recognize happiness by the sound it makes when it leaves (1-3-07)

I owe you a blog. So, here I lay, offering this to you this like a child with an upturned brow and a leaf in his left hand…waiting.

A very short story (autobiographical?):

Rusted brandy in a diamond glass
Everything is made from dreams
Time is made from honey slow and sweet

I'll let you run away
But your heart will not oblige you
You'll remember me like a melody

Lost in fog and love and faithless fear
And I've had kisses that make Judas seem sincere

Dianna Krall.   Temptation.   Lyrics.

Fiona Apple.   Slow Like Honey.   Lyrics.

The Hold Steady.   Citrus.   Lyrics.

I'm here to say that I have let too many temptations go racing by for one reason or another. My life has suffered for it. 

Our lives aren't checklists…are they? Please tell me there is some other way to win.

I've passed up vibrant minutes for others, for morality, out of laziness, and superiority. For myself too…for fear of failure and pain and embarrassment. Right this instant, I'm tired of being a hobo on the train of life.

These are visceral comments/wishes. If you want to align them with the calendar, so be it, but there aren't really any resolutions here.

This post has strayed from its intended tack.  It was supposed to be a story about the undeniable lack of soul in those new year's kisses (not that I had an actual new year's kiss this year—I was sleeping—but it hasn't been long since my last empty kiss.)  How those kisses with random strangers do such a good job at highlighting the good and bad of bachelorhood, and how the good is just starting to matter so little. Too bad…it sounds like it would have been a good story.

sorry this isn't is already 2...don't take it as a lack of love.

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This is one of my favorite poems...Patten slays me…please love it.

A Blade of Grass

You ask for a poem.

I offer you a blade of grass.

You say it is not good enough.

You ask for a poem.

I say this blade of grass will do.

It has dressed itself in frost,

It is more immediate

Than any image of my making.

You say it is not a poem,

It is a blade of grass and grass

Is not quite good enough.

I offer you a blade of grass.

You are indignant.

You say it is too easy to offer grass.

It is absurd.

Anyone can offer a blade of grass.

You ask for a poem.

And so I write you a tragedy about

How a blade of grass

Becomes more and more difficult to offer,

And about how as you grow older

A blade of grass

Becomes more difficult to accept.

-Brian Patten

call me.

image- dominique*