What it looks like when I’m sick (at Huanchaco)
Down and out in Peru
Yesterday’s impromtu storm and fall sunset.
My pal in Cali
Roche & Dinkeloo, 750 7th Avenue, New York, New York, 1991
I’m walking through the plantation
In search of my salvation
Everything I find and see
Is living in a dying sea
I’m walking around trying to tell people
Trying to tell people
The more you chase for that dollar
The harder you chase for that dollar
The tighter that noose gon’ get
I wonder when I’ll die, he thought as he turned the catch on the bird house. He went to the bottom of the garden at least twice a day, sometimes more if there was work to do on the hut, or if one of the birds was sick. But in all the times he’d been in the shed he’d never had a thought like this one.
These little birds flew to the big man’s hands, and rested there.
I want to do something like poems for a pound. People send in their credentials and I write them a poem, 12 lines maximum, less if that’s what happens and they pay me £1.
Let me write some free testers and tell me what you think
I once had a prof who banned semicolons because nobody knew how to use them. I put one in my essay anyway, and I did it right.
I have to tell you what it’s like. What it’s like to be somewhere you haven’t been for a while, not through any lack of desire, but because of circumstance and energy. Also, a sense of propulsion to share that place, share in it, be with the other in that place and that sharing becoming the same thing, yet splintering off into an infinite amount of experiences that the memory will reassemble and allow for a multitude of feelings that will produce wonderful associations.
Well, I have to tell you what it’s like to be up there on that moorland again. Alright, take away the odd few icecream vans and the sightseers… no, actually don’t, they don’t harm anybody and they add a certain picturesque and human quality to such a seemingly untrammelled place. Sightseers and icecream sellers are just further reminders that it’s hard to get close to that place, even when you’re there, in it. I mean, you can see millennia right there, having happened, ancient things, remnants, but nothing, nothing that the earth itself discards. We witness it there, slow time, nothing vaulted forwards, everything just happening, but in ways we’re not used to. It’s unsettling, perhaps it feels like you should be doing something, something to counter the infinitesimal ache of not much happening. But we listen, rocks, strewn granite, ancient volcanic matter doing nothing, a split here in a boulder, a crack etching its way through stone there, not much to speak of.
But high on the moorland looking down you see what Macfarlane calls ‘deep time’, something beyond our stimulated modern mindset, beyond or other or elsewhere. Sheep stagger across it, scrub grass, a shimmering wind blowing through it, the rough edged clitter of granite, old bones, new bones. Death, the circling of buzzards high above, piercing their eyes down into new life emerging.
I have to tell you what it’s like there. There where nobody really goes; they’’re all elsewhere, by the coast, sea dreaming, going to far off places. But here, the far off place is beneath our feet. A glider carves slow turns out of the sky, riding thermals, soundless, a wondrous joy of wings and flight. Below and all around, tors spread close and far like Neolithic nuggets, a yellowing gold crowning the hills. Grasses shimmer, brushed by light summer winds.
I have to tell you what it’s like here in this place, else perhaps you’ll think the world is all it is. But to go back, to remember, to take someone’s hand. To sense it at your finger tips, to have that longed for kiss. To know that steady, slow, deep, imperceptibly changing land beneath you, and the blue of sky and ancient clouds shifting uncountable shapes above you. And to somehow know it all without articulation. That’s what I want to tell you.