Cather Chronicle VII
The Andes Mountains scream
their beauty as you pass
through, and maybe it's
really only a whisper, but
it picks up both velocity
and decibels as it careens
through the valleys the
rest of my world has
somehow forgotten. But I
don't know how. I doubt
I'll ever be able to.
For five weeks now every
breath has come stilted
and shallow as I feel
its echoes crash tight and
fast upon my lungs. All
things there fall in upon
one another, and it's easy
to start missing yourself
in such glorious chaos.
But I know where I'll
find me, tucked behind
a shaded creek and
softly spreading hills,
where every step ripples
and grows. It's hard to
crash into anything in
so much space.
I've never lived in two
places at one time, and
it's more taxing than I
wagered it would be but
also more complete. My only
joy in this noise, the only
way I know how to
appreciate it, comes from
my distinctly complex
relationship with its
brother in the Plains.
They both can deafen.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
Winter Retreat: Dubai
Cather Chronicle VI
Here at the center of everything
it's difficult to tell where the
sandy, January grass ends and
where I begin. Never has such
a lonely, barren place been so
bursting with life. Where the
placidity of the Plains crumples,
and brown grass takes on a
dimension words haven't found.
Even dust obscures the solitary
gravel road, masking any known
civilization.
Here in the middle, life expands
toward the horizon in endless
undulations of sanguine stems
and chalky shrubs. And if you'd
like to be on top of the world,
you need only climb to the nearest
ridge and watch the hills erupt
around you. And everything is
the same vibrant color of silence
and, therefore, indistinguishable.
If it weren't for the way the
sun grew shadows on the
ground or the unexpected shocks
of blue from forgotten streams,
you'd be forced to believe that
you had become completely
dissolved. Completely nothing.
Here at the center of everything
it's easy to linger a little long.
The center lies cloistered in
the quiet creases of the plains,
where even the wind knows to
tip-toe. It is lone. It is singular.
And it was not meant for you.
Here at the center of everything
it's difficult to tell where the
sandy, January grass ends and
where I begin. Never has such
a lonely, barren place been so
bursting with life. Where the
placidity of the Plains crumples,
and brown grass takes on a
dimension words haven't found.
Even dust obscures the solitary
gravel road, masking any known
civilization.
Here in the middle, life expands
toward the horizon in endless
undulations of sanguine stems
and chalky shrubs. And if you'd
like to be on top of the world,
you need only climb to the nearest
ridge and watch the hills erupt
around you. And everything is
the same vibrant color of silence
and, therefore, indistinguishable.
If it weren't for the way the
sun grew shadows on the
ground or the unexpected shocks
of blue from forgotten streams,
you'd be forced to believe that
you had become completely
dissolved. Completely nothing.
Here at the center of everything
it's easy to linger a little long.
The center lies cloistered in
the quiet creases of the plains,
where even the wind knows to
tip-toe. It is lone. It is singular.
And it was not meant for you.