This is a controlled demolition

Cather Chronicle III

A silhouetted skirt floats a quarter
mile away against the "something
blue" sky. And I've always been
on the side of tradition because
I envy its staying power.

Butter-colored mariposas flit from
one sun-stained flower to the
next. And, for a moment, they
match the concrete path before
a celestial mountain causes the
shadows to spread, yellow fading
to gray.

And I know from experience
that beyond this deep, green
slope, there's just another slope.
Then another, then another,
spreading out like miles of
solid ocean. Perhaps emerald
fades to lime and back to
the thick shades of forest, but
mostly it's all the same.

It's the kind of majesty that
reminds you what living is. And
even if you don't think you
need reminding, you probably do.
It's hard to know what's missing
when it exists in so few a space.  

Schuyler. Skyler. Sky. Lark.

Open-windowed dreaming stands
waiting near a black bag, white
polka dots. The cicadas missed me
this summer, as did the stars.
The floor is wet and so is my
collar and so are the corners
of my eyes, but only a little. At
some point, I guess my lungs
gave out. It's maybe been days
or even weeks. They've only now
started to inflate, and my
skin is already turning a soft
strawberry.

Nacho, my yogi guide, my once
vain champion, let me listen
as I breathe at stilted and
deepened speed.

Keep on keeping on...

I just heard thunder knock meekly outside of my window. Thunder was not made to be humble, to be hushed to be calm. I need it to find its passion. If I can't feel it, I can't feel myself.

I'll have time to write soon. Hopefully.

I am important. I care for the Earth.

We often forget that we are nature.

Nature is not something separate from us. 

So when we say that we have lost our connection to nature, 

we've lost our connection to ourselves. 

I do not love you

XVII (I do not love you...) 

 

by Pablo Neruda

 

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

 

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

 

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way

 

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep

Eat. Pray. Love.

The last ten days were exactly what I needed. I feel so rejuvenated, so fresh, so ready.

I'm going to start reading again today. I haven't read for pleasure in years.

I bet you can't guess what I'm going to read first.

(So... you probably guessed wrong cause the library didn't have that one. The Kite Runner it is.)