This Post Aint Got No Melody
So it disturbs me that I'm not observing this at all in my parents' marriage. Everything looks great from a distance, but now that I'm here...I mean, they're not fighting. And they share several common interests. But they don't so much as do things together, as they do things next to each other. And as far as picking up on each others' thoughts and moods...
My parents are a pair of socks in seperate drawers.
Today my thoughts are black flowers blooming everywhere. Oh, there's still a red one blooming here and there, bright as an unexpected blush.
I'm in the car, putting pen to paper, wondering if it will translate to pixel. I write best in motion. In transition.
I have to keep looking out the window. I can't help myself. I'm always out here in the late fall when the landscape's tawny and tattered and ready for bed. I haven't seen a true spring in years.
Lining the road are purple and gold and blue wildflowers that I cannot name. There are also shasta dasies, irises, queen anne's lace and orange lilies in the tall green grass. We're passing dark oak forests and maple and poplar windbreaks between the fields.
The fields. How could I have forgotten the way they look when newly plowed? The dark wet soil makes my mouth water, makes me want to walk barefoot to the middle of one, lie down on my back and...
Well. You know the rest.
There are three types of fields out my window. The first kind is as I described; dark and rich and moist, electric green shoots pushing up and almost glowing against their deep backdrop. My attention keeps coming back to the dirt, the black earth. My heart recognizes when something is the way it should be, and then it aches for all the things that aren't.
The second type of field; weeds grow thick and carpetlike around old corn stalks bent and blackened like the burnt timbers from a house fire. These are the fields of bankruptcy. The banks claim the plow and nature takes the rest. For a time. Render unto Ceasar...
The third type; these fields are sprouting new houses, and yes Stucco, Wal*Marts too. I can only wonder who can afford to live in these, when all they can do is work for those.*
Back home the desert's dry, O tells me, and hot. I won't watch the transition through the plane window. I can't do it. I already imagine the heat pounding on my skin, the relentless blue sky, the crackle of dead grass under my feet as I walk to the garden -- my green and clay-red oasis.
It's not that I want to stay here. It's not that I don't want to go back (though that accusation was unfaily made before I even boarded the plane).
Tell you what. When I figure out what it is that I want, and when what I want is somthing that I can actually have, you'll be the first one I tell.
All right. To bed before the progestrone does the rest of its work and knocks me out completely. Oh the buzz is so sweet though. But I see I'm typing after midnight under its influence again, so I'm sure I'll come to this post just as fresh and uninformed as you tomorrow.
de nada, my loves.
*Remind me, would you, to go walking in that idea I have about government and corporation, and 1984 and Brave New World. But not today. I don't want to walk in that heavy grey mass today. What I want to do instead is kick aside the houses and recover the field.
Fuck progress for progress' sake. That's social cancer.
All right, Dancehall. Save it for another day.