This was an experiment. It's not necessarily something I'm proud of, but it is interesting and it was fun to do. I realize it makes me look like a blowhard.
Also, I have to give credit to James Joyce for getting me rolling.
II.
Riverrun, past Adam’s Eve, in the corner a sad Molly sits twisting her hairsad waiting to homego and take me with you Molly take me with you Molly-olly. Take me past the river, up the hillstown see the streets streets streets to your townhouse waiting patiently. Flowersit vases quietly tying together soupcans and tablecloths checker-red, waiting for Molly and me. Photos in the kitchen stare out at kitchenspace and burners and panspots and checker-red tablecloths and wait wait for the archetypes to appear. Records sitting in boxes resting on walls restingresting. Backgarden waiting in catnip and cyclamens, small roundbench waiting for Molly and for me. Toiletseats upright doilies by the bathroom faucets. Neatly arranged. Sit sit is it sitsit? Catssit, beside Bedsit, bedlay bedroom quietly candlesit, candlestand on dressers waiting for my Molly and for
me. Afghansitting silently together. Recordplayer entertain us with songs we'd forgotten.
Afghansitting minutes later. I remember when times things were closer, when times songs we remember now were first remembered. Past riverrun I was Eve's Adam waiting for Godknewwhat. Your hair softcheek, your body softwarm. I am thinking (if at all) of how I could be the savior of one who sits beside me. But you'll be the one that saves me. Saveme saveme please Eve, saveme from the monsters I see everywhere, behind bookshelves bulletinboards under tables chairs checker-red tablecloths waiting for my Molly and for me. If time is the diamond time is sparklinggolden don't let it drip away from me don't let it run down past lanes lorries. Finally a respite. Finally a respite. In stillness I am thinking
my Molly is for me.
St. Francis of Assisi, Peace Prayer:
Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace
Where there is hatred, let me sow Your love
Where there is injury, pardon
And where there is doubt, let me bring Your faith
Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace
Where there is despairing, let me bring Your hope
Where there is darkness, Your light
Where there is sadness, let me bring Your joy
Oh divine Master, grant that I might see
Not so much to be consoled, as to console
To be understood, as to understand
Not so much to be loved, as to love another
For it is in giving that we now recieve
It is in pardoning that we are now pardoned
And it is in dying that we are now born again
Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace
Where there is hatred, let me sow Your love
The first day of summer.
The path twisted on up ahead, bending in the undergrowth, out of sight. The young ashes and oaks stood peacefully on either side, their green leaves slowly turning a darker shade in the evening light. In places the wood was almost dark, here in the shadow of two larger oaks growing together somewhere far up, and again as the path dipped into a copse of hazel and rhododendron. But overhead the evening sky was still light and clear, blue fading to white in the evening.
Two figures followed the path, walking slowly through the dimming light. It was not for fear of losing the path that they took their time. They were in no hurry, and they knew the wood well. Off to their left a small stream of water flowed gently past, sometimes too far to hear, and other times twisting close alongside the small track. It made hardly any noise, but seemed to guide them along nonetheless.
It was a young boy, following close behind his older brother. They came from the town not far away and walked in a comfortable silence. Both were lost in thoughts of their own, and yet each in his way was very aware of his companion. They had come to walk in the quiet woods and to sit by the waterfall to which the path eventually led. There was a comfort in their being together, but the comfort was a new one. Wherever their thoughts led them, to the woods, to the events of the past weeks, they each led them back to thoughts of one another. The younger one pleasant thoughts at his brothers unexpected kindness in bringing him here, and the older brother somewhat guilty thoughts that he had not done it a long time ago.
The path led on without much change for perhaps a couple of miles. Then it unexpectedly veered off to the right, leading away from the stream of water, before just as unexpectedly striking it again. The two brothers heard the waterfall several minutes before they saw it, a small waterfall, perhaps only ten feet high, and they scrambled easily over the rocks that led around and above it. There they sat down amoung the cascades and pools which trickled down to the actual falls itself. It was almost the longest night of the year, the last day of spring, and the fireflies were out.
They sat in stillness for a long time, content in the comfortable familiarity in which silence is not awkward. And slowly the silence became rich and full as they both came to realize this. The light faded around them, slowly closing them in, and the sound of the falling water beside them grew louder in the dusk. The leaves on the trees about them faded from deep green to grey until the trees were no longer distinct but only vague shapes suggested by their rustlings in the breeze.
Two weeks ago, their father had been in an accident. A semi had run a stop light and smashed into the side of his swerving car. He had been air lifted to a hospital where he had made a surprisingly swift recovery from a severe concussion and a bruised brain. Now he sat at home, silent and confused, as his brain slowly regained the ground it had lost, reconnecting the synapses and impulses which made him who he was. For the time being his mind was like a child. He made daily progess, but it was slow progress and discouraging to see his discouragment. It was difficult to watch. His sons saw their father, a figure to respect and honor, someone to look toward for help and advice, so completely disabled so that he could not even put together a logical sentence, and it frightened them.
The younger son took it especially hard. He had been in the accident with his father and had seen the body twisted and bloody, rolled away on a stretcher and lifted the in the helicopter, out of reach. He himself had been unharmed except for a seatbelt burn on his left forearm, and he would look at that burn, healing quickly and easily, in the slow days of waiting and wondering that followed while his father lay in the hospital, helpless and hooked up to tubes. The older brother was more independent and could more adequately reason through what had happened to his father, and in that reason, in the simple and honest truth, he found comfort. For the younger brother, however, everything seemed more dim and less simple. It was confusing to see his father so incapacitated. The emotions cannot understand things as completely as the mind, and the younger brother needed something concrete, something solid to hold onto.
There was an old water pipe which began not far from the waterfall. The pipe ran above ground, supported from three to ten feet in the air by iron girders and was large enough to walk on. It led downhill, at first gradually and then quite steeply, about two miles through the woods toward an old abandoned pump station, and beyond it a gravel road which would lead them, eventually, back to their parked car. The pipe was rusted through in many places and some sections had fallen to the ground, but for the most part it was still intact.
As the night came on the two brothers still sat in silence, listening to the falling water and each content in the other's company. The darkness was complete now, and it was time to leave. The crickets were out, giving the night a sort or rich and dreamy texture, bringing with them all the memories of summers past. The fireflies blinked on and off in the trees. The two brothers stood up and stood still for a moment, as if decided what to do. Then the older brother thought of the pipe.
They found it after a short search, with the aid of a flashlight which they had brought along for the return journey in the dark. The pipe groaned as they hefted themselves up and got their balance. The older brothers took the lead with the light, the younger following just behind. With the flashlight on, the woods around them faded into deep blackness. The trees on either side of them all but disappeared, and the only visible things were their legs, the leaves on the ground beneath them shown up now and again by the light, and the pipe itself, leading downward into the gloom.
They walked carefully, watching their step, but steadily, making good progress, slanting always downward. The trees, dark silent shapes on either side, moved slowly past. At one place an entire section of the pipe had broken off and tetered like a seesaw on it iron girders, and they had to get down and walk around it. Several trees had fallen over the pipe in various places which had to be clambered over or ducked under. The stars and moon had disappeared somewhere behind the trees. The two boys kept them eyes downward anyway, watching the dim beam of light which showed them only the next few careful steps.
At last the pipe reached the steep incline and plunged down the hill at an alarming angle. The brothers were obliged to crawl down it on their backs, crab style. It fell steeply down for a long time, made longer by their slowed progress, and finally bent to the right toward the pump station. Just before reaching it, the pipe ran into some thick undergrowth, blackberry bushes and vines. They had to move around to the left, crunching on the leaves in the stillness. They skirted the pump station as best they could, but it seemed to take longer than it should have. The pump station was behind them, and they still hadn't broken out into the clear. For several confused and silent minutes they walked on, wondering where the road could have gone.
Suddenly, with no warning, they felt the crunch of gravel under their feet. The must have skirted the pump station too widely and had met the road further up than they had expected. In the woods they had forgotten how bright the night was and how light the stars. The moon lit up the road, which gleamed ghostly white. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the brightness. The older brother flicked off the light and they stood side by side squinting at the trees on the other side of the road. They still had perhaps two miles to walk along the brilliant strip of gravel. It was past midnight, the first day of summer.
Seby Jones Library, 12:49pm.
Wireless and Cause:
Yellow lights are floating down
You can barely see them now
They explain you on the bus queues
Advertising wireless and cause
Around every blind turning
There are turnings everywhere
Your mind is full of leaving
Right and it's reasons
Now i'm waiting in between
Men and girls called custom queens
They're explaining how to make it
With humility, compliance and
I'm so tired of leaving
Right and wrong's reasons
In bus queues waiting far behind
I've found something new:
Would you go back? Is being real worth it now?
Could you go back? Is knowing why worth it now?
Or would you lie? Would you lie? Will you go back?
Hi.
As much as i love my friends, sometimes I get tired of spending time in large groups. Rarely if ever are those times really meaningful. I often find myself wishing for a long walk with just one person. Meaningful conversations are what I live for.
I've gotten a little lazy and I'm having to play catch-up with Greek. So much homework and such precious little incentive. My classes are on the whole largely boring to me. It's just busy work. It's difficult to stay motivated, especially when you're so run-down and exhausted.
I need the discipline to just put my head down and get through these next thirteen weeks. But heck if I know where it's going to come from.
Listening:
Beck: Sea Change
Elliot Smith: Either/Or
Ryan Adams: Love is Hell
Map: Secrets by the Highway
Reading:
Nothing of interest.
