| Just a Torrent of Words |
[20 Dec 2006|10:32pm] |
She thinks: see the sky, see the rain; breathe in and smell the smell of water and spring-blossomed flowers; see the valley in the purple light of the first day of summer; the finger-taps of drops on the windshield and roof, and the flat, gray, motionless lake in the west; this place, this town-
You’re driving, alone, singing. You dance your fingers up along the steering wheel, tapping in time to the music on the stereo; your music, your songs.
Outside, the wind shuffles through the falling water; above, heavy clouds churn, exhale, and drop thin veils of rain.
The mountains are covered in green tufts of trees, are speckled by gray and red rocks darkened by the rain, and Terra thinks: these are mine, this is mine-
The first day of summer.
She drives passed the big homes in the foothills, their mowed lawns and stuccoed facades, and the trees, taller than the houses, growing in their front yards-
This is Alpine- this is the road, dark, shining with water- now: the town where you were born.
Music ripples through the trails of water on the windows and makes them tremble.
It’s a jungle of green, here, in the rain.
Terra points her car up a curving street, around a hill, towards its weed-covered top. The sidewalk is a parallel ribbon of concrete next to the road; it swings into a tear-drop and circles the black tar of the street into an empty cul-de-sac.
She stops the car but leaves the music playing. She is above the valley, a valley latticed by slivers of asphalt and submerged in a low green cloud of wavering trees.
She gets out and is struck by an urge to run through the knee-high weeds and kick the water from their stems. Terra wants to dip her face in a growth of grass and drink up the moisture, taste the earth and rain. She is alone. Why not?
And so Terra plucks a spindly globe from a nearby thistle and shakes the water into her mouth. Drops splash against her lips and slide down her cheeks and neck.
She notices drops drip to the ground and sees them get drunk up-
She looks at herself, standing alone on an empty, yellow hill, surrounded by green and trees and a sky pouring rain-
She looks at herself and says to herself: See yourself, see yourself standing here on an empty hill; see the moment pressing into the past as another moment hurries up to take its place; as the rain falls and seeps into your mouth, as the sweetness fills your mouth and fills your throat-
As the present fades into the past; as the rain fades into the ground- this drop of water, on your face, from the purple sky, as it seeps into your mouth- as the light of mid-afternoon summer storms become memory, already beginning to dull into a colorless dust, as you yourself will become dust, buried beneath soil-
And Terra can still hear the music from her car, through the windows. The sound rises into the sky and falls with the rain.
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| Old Black and White Photos |
[17 Dec 2006|05:10am] |
These are some photos, almost very old, at least two years in some cases. I've been getting back into taking pictures again, and I plan on posting the best ones, but I thought I'd share some with people. I've finished a few books on the list of books currently being read and I can report that all of them were worth the time.
     
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| Some Books |
[19 Nov 2006|12:08pm] |
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I am currently reading: Underworld by Don Deillo; The Children's Hospital by Chris Adrian; What is the What by Dave Eggers; Disgrace by J.M Coetzee; Moby Dick by Mellville; Heart of Darkness by Conrad; Frankenstein by nineteen year old Mary Shelley; Mcweeney's Issue 21. A group of us guys was at the sugarhouse Barnes and Noble on friday, and Sterilng, who only Sir Ian Mckellan has met, said to me: "You must spend a small fortune on books." And he is absolutley right. I do not read so many books at the same time because I am disasterously ADHD and Obsessive Compulsive (I am) but because nothing else kicks me int he fucking face as hard as books have and do. (Except, certainly, the movie The Departed. Go see it.) More than any other medium i have seen or heard or felt or whatever, books remind me that someday, yes, i am going to die. But what's different from, say, church, is that books seem to erase that fear of death I'm sure we all have and fill it back in with wonder at the fact that i exist at all. Here are stories form across centuries that affirms one fact abve all others, and its perhaps the most important fact books have to show us: We are all the same, we feel the same, we are all embarassed, afraid, in love, in hate, all the same. I know that i am no the only person who is in love with books, not becasue they make me smart, or because i can carry them to class and show off to all the girls, but because they make me more compassionate, more accepting of everything in the world. So I write, so i draw, so I take black and white photographs. I can say that I do all of these things because of books. Have a blessed day.
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