Monday, July 31, 2006


August 2006 email newsletter
No. 027

A duet of wind and rain plays on the dark stage of an empty theater except for one man on the back row, slumped, fingers steepled as his mind wanders Earth. Red exit signs reflect.

Seasonal prism songs: winter walks like a hungry panther; spring flowers; summer settles like a weight; fall will dance. Lives simmer in trivia, boil in unnecessary irony because people have more answers than questions. As more people lose their grip on the balloon of reality, reality begins to float away into the high, pale sky.

Bellow Dostoyevsky. Two incredibly ripe, young women quietly read books older than themselves. Later, “Still Life with Woodpeckers” by Tom Robbins, “A Confederacy of Dunces” by John Kennedy Toole. The women quietly turn paperback pages. I drove here from a cultural wasteland, sweating, to sit near them, waiting to listen to music. An MC introduces the band to a Woody Guthrie tune, saying, “This band is your band, this band is my band.” The band plays. Takes a break in mid-song, comes back 20 minutes later to finish where it left off.

All your philosophy and mine, too, sometimes, for warm willing flesh. You are more waltz than woman. I have lost my blues in your eyes. All that chatters is not cold.

Near the woods yesterday, I photographed a 10-year-old girl who may have lice in her hair. The lice will be temporary. The girl faces so much promise (what she can do and be) and so much peril (what can happen to her) in the acts of growing up and constantly becoming. She has a drum set at home, and I ask her if it drives her parents crazy. She smiles; the light shines briefly in her eyes; she whispers, “yes.”

I see hummingbirds here. And bats and dragonflies and cardinals, and, between two tall sweet gum trees, a sliver of white moon in the afternoon blue sky. I saw a deer last week, a male with foot-long antlers, that ran when it saw me.

I wait for a duet of wind and rain to play on a dark stage to an empty theater. Red exit signs reflect. Life simmers.