Mar 07 23
A walk to our car after dinner, alone.
A tiny moon hangs above, like a small, incomplete memory of a moon.
Below the pale dot, crossing the blue-blackness, there is a commercial airplane. It blinks red in the front and white in the back. The fuselage is not quite discernible so the alternating lights make it seem like an object rotating strangely as it hurtles forward. Its jerky rhythm is eventually gobbled up by the black tips of trees.
Over a high beige block wall, bordering the sidewalk, an intensity of traffic is heard. The unseen concentration of noise makes the relative calm on our side seem less relevant, like we’re in a different dimension from a main event. In a few ways, this is a familiar and apt feeling — and sort of true.
“Seated,” leaning on the barrier, is something like an animated pile of textiles. A voice is chanting from its center but it’s impossible to clearly discern, due to the cars and felted muffling of the layers of fabric. Whether it is our ego or actual, it seems like the wooly statements are addressing us — either you are a warrior, you are a warrior, you are a warrior or you are a worrier, you are a worrier, you are a worrier. The utterances are timed with the rhythmic rocking of the oily, sad rags.
As we wait for the light to change, to cross the street to our car, a tall eddie of trash and dirt whirls upwards past the street light into what might be called, a ceaseless sky.
A tiny moon hangs above, like a small, incomplete memory of a moon.
Below the pale dot, crossing the blue-blackness, there is a commercial airplane. It blinks red in the front and white in the back. The fuselage is not quite discernible so the alternating lights make it seem like an object rotating strangely as it hurtles forward. Its jerky rhythm is eventually gobbled up by the black tips of trees.
Over a high beige block wall, bordering the sidewalk, an intensity of traffic is heard. The unseen concentration of noise makes the relative calm on our side seem less relevant, like we’re in a different dimension from a main event. In a few ways, this is a familiar and apt feeling — and sort of true.
“Seated,” leaning on the barrier, is something like an animated pile of textiles. A voice is chanting from its center but it’s impossible to clearly discern, due to the cars and felted muffling of the layers of fabric. Whether it is our ego or actual, it seems like the wooly statements are addressing us — either you are a warrior, you are a warrior, you are a warrior or you are a worrier, you are a worrier, you are a worrier. The utterances are timed with the rhythmic rocking of the oily, sad rags.
As we wait for the light to change, to cross the street to our car, a tall eddie of trash and dirt whirls upwards past the street light into what might be called, a ceaseless sky.