air

2003-02-16, 7:20 p.m.

all rolled up into a ball, the difficult things unravel in music, beats on clinking metal on wood. you've got to travel on the path at night, and you've got to see the way as an equation, so complex and non linear. when you walk, you have to feel the wind licking your neck, making anthills on your skin, prickly wires of hair standing like redwood trees. when you meet someone, the language is mixed up, forrmed by several languages, written with the whispering heart. bring your notebook, and a pencil to make your marks and draw your maps, solving the ambiguities of speech, or of the trees. looking up in the transition sky, the dark blue is so clean, and the smears of cloud almost touch my face. peeking stars, and the street lights are just loud enough to be heard by their natural cousins. i wanted to find them, all huddled in a corner, conversing about the intricacies of time, but i found, to my disappointment, that they were mute. they had no hands to write with, no mouths to speak with, only 6 billion years of life to draw upon. i have to stop and imagine what a meeting would be like for two beings like that. ones who had lived for the expanse, wrought from the womb of a dark mystery that waits for her children to leave. i have to imgagine the molecules of time in each of us, ticking and tocking, sorting through the mothers and fathers, exposing small cracks that not even water could caress. in there, with the silent (oh how natural that would be, with the utter absence of sound, but with the physical vibration of music) space, i hypothesize one thing: it could be so amazing if in the expanse of a dark and heavenly mother, that sound comes from the conitual motion of silence in space.