On Through

12/01/2006 7:36 AM – 7:57 AM

My statements of faith inevitably reveal my heterodoxy. Which is a so be it – any good orthodoxy started as a heterodoxy. And here I am again, up and typing. Now to get up early enough to work on something other than the instants. Something that accumulates. Something that can be sold and bought. Something like lemonade or horses.

The rain falls down in Buffalo on the first of December. Cold rain, but likable. The streets are dull mirrors filled with zigzags of yellow and gray and black. When we go, we’ll take the bus again. Having scrounged for change, fit as a fiddle and ready for love. Ha, more a joke than something else. Forgetting then and turning towards the day. What’s there to see? What’s there to do? So much and we’ve only gone skin deep. Torn and peeled we wash up on the unfound shores of paradise. The clocktower recedes in distant winds.

Back to the winds and turns of black and white history. Out to see the world and become something that hides in a crab shell carried by an albatross. Whistling the wind from tropical storms and forgetting the fact that it can be drab as anything, if you choose. No more of that then, for a while anyway. Nothing new. Nothing wise. Nothing half remembered as you struggle to wake up from odd dreams of the Blond and the First. Who were we then? Where does the self reside? The ability to string memories? But that’s no answer. Away from this path then, bushwhack through to another hidden road. Forgetting what needs to be, remembering the now. Old news. There is no new thing. Just new to me. Find on then. The trees, forgetting leaves, the leaves forgetting leafhood, the ground forgetting warmth, winter, to make a long story short. Work done and work to do. On cloudy days, one can look into the neighbor’s attic widow and see out the opposite window. Through. And so it is. Enough then. Nothing of substance. Tales to tell and muscles to use. Go play – I think that’s one that I used to tell.