Thursday, January 24, 2013

Somebody Else's Story

Ambulance. Siren: a quick stutter and then a slower whooping. Through the intersection – red lights flashing – around the bus, and then disappearing down Division Street. Somebody else's story, with any luck: not mine.

The air is cold in my nostrils – no heat today – but the coffee is warm in my throat. My mood shifts between melancholy and savage bitterness. I am a bit dangerous, these days. But I recognize that I am in one of those precious bardos, in-between times, and that I dare not waste it. I found myself writing on Facebook, the other day: I feel like my life is responding to the reins again, at least some of the time. I was afraid maybe that last fence had finished it. I wonder what the devil he meant by that? I like reading that guy's posts, but I do wonder who he is, and what he means by it.

Sun just scraping her way over the OHSU building, there. I hope her breasts are not too abraded from dragging along the wet grit of the rooftop, poor soul. It's a hell of a job, crawling along the squashed ecliptic of the southern sky, this time of year. I imagine she took the job in high summer, thinking it was all going to be splendid chariot-driving on the Empyrean highways. Bad luck, sister.

Still. My body is deliciously sore from various impromptu exercises, and I have an odd conviction that I am a beautiful, gleaming, half-lit creature, vanishing from the water to be glimpsed in the air. There and gone.

I stroke your hair, hold your face between my hands. Just a short winter, this year, dear.


Lucy said...

You *are* a beautiful, gleaming half-lit creature!

Anne said...

Oh, my dear, the winter's already gone on too long.

I've been away, and an glad to be back to read this beautiful post.

Dale said...

Thanks dear friends!