the recalcitrant blogger
The rain has momentarily abated, and spring is
hovering at the edges of the pan handle, shooting tendrils of perfume into the night to kiss my cheek. Just there, just behind the gathering thunderheads. There is a ring about the moon tonight, which bodes well or bodes ill, I am sorry I have forgotten, in my self satisfied well being, I have been more than careless in searching the sky for omens. I could be heedlessly taken out by an SUV tomorrow and I will have not heard it in the raven's cry.
What I heard tonight were the vestiges of junky hippies gathering under trees around a lit match, what I saw was only a glimpse, what I did was speculate. Ring around an unfull moon, and I don't remember if it is waxing or waning, but there is a coolness about and the path is muddy and treacherous and I step gingerly in the dark. All of the blossoms are water logged and beginning to rot, too much water everywhere and the decadent promise of spring floods, swift and sudden, plains to puddles and permeating the carpets.
All of us trumped by rivulets, undone by the water cutting through the fields and the mountains and the crumbling, tumbling basements, thirsting for what we cannot drink.
And isn't that just the most perfect metaphor for the rest of it, for everything you ever thirsted for but couldn't quite slake your thirst, couldn't quite bend enough into the dirty water to wet your lips. Let it swirl about your ankles like an angry tide or a lazy river, stand above the muck, shoulders back, imperious, impervious, because like the ice age, this too shall pass.
And I miss cigarettes, my right hand dances without it's nicotine anchor. And my thoughts are hard to gather and all of the words I should be writing down keep skipping away, and I have decided that I don't understand the fuss over Death Cab For Cutie besides their overly precious name, but then I am secretly hipsterishly dense and there is a whole hellova lot simply leaves me mystified.
What's a girl to do but cloak herself in beauty. Take the nascent tendrils of an April evening and spin a cloak, take the underbelly of the next anxious storm and press it to the warmth of my chest, rock with it, roll with it, cleave to the flanks of the wind flailing into impermiable abutments, heave as we fall sidelong and headstrong into the conundrum of the blackest abyss, this is me wrapped in the velvet of the unknowable you, this is me tempest tossed and wracked by metaphor, singing this song and almost wildly in love.
The ten year old and the six year old saw it, saw it plain as day and flirted shamelessly, and tonight excreted every iota of charm, which largely consisted of exclaiming to their mother and I - my what large asses you have, and then poke, poke, poke. The the six year old declaimed that I was certainly not be married, not until he was old enough to declare his intentions. My engineer beware, I've got a third grader in hot pursuit....
The rain has momentarily abated, and spring is
hovering at the edges of the pan handle, shooting tendrils of perfume into the night to kiss my cheek. Just there, just behind the gathering thunderheads. There is a ring about the moon tonight, which bodes well or bodes ill, I am sorry I have forgotten, in my self satisfied well being, I have been more than careless in searching the sky for omens. I could be heedlessly taken out by an SUV tomorrow and I will have not heard it in the raven's cry.
What I heard tonight were the vestiges of junky hippies gathering under trees around a lit match, what I saw was only a glimpse, what I did was speculate. Ring around an unfull moon, and I don't remember if it is waxing or waning, but there is a coolness about and the path is muddy and treacherous and I step gingerly in the dark. All of the blossoms are water logged and beginning to rot, too much water everywhere and the decadent promise of spring floods, swift and sudden, plains to puddles and permeating the carpets.
All of us trumped by rivulets, undone by the water cutting through the fields and the mountains and the crumbling, tumbling basements, thirsting for what we cannot drink.
And isn't that just the most perfect metaphor for the rest of it, for everything you ever thirsted for but couldn't quite slake your thirst, couldn't quite bend enough into the dirty water to wet your lips. Let it swirl about your ankles like an angry tide or a lazy river, stand above the muck, shoulders back, imperious, impervious, because like the ice age, this too shall pass.
And I miss cigarettes, my right hand dances without it's nicotine anchor. And my thoughts are hard to gather and all of the words I should be writing down keep skipping away, and I have decided that I don't understand the fuss over Death Cab For Cutie besides their overly precious name, but then I am secretly hipsterishly dense and there is a whole hellova lot simply leaves me mystified.
What's a girl to do but cloak herself in beauty. Take the nascent tendrils of an April evening and spin a cloak, take the underbelly of the next anxious storm and press it to the warmth of my chest, rock with it, roll with it, cleave to the flanks of the wind flailing into impermiable abutments, heave as we fall sidelong and headstrong into the conundrum of the blackest abyss, this is me wrapped in the velvet of the unknowable you, this is me tempest tossed and wracked by metaphor, singing this song and almost wildly in love.
The ten year old and the six year old saw it, saw it plain as day and flirted shamelessly, and tonight excreted every iota of charm, which largely consisted of exclaiming to their mother and I - my what large asses you have, and then poke, poke, poke. The the six year old declaimed that I was certainly not be married, not until he was old enough to declare his intentions. My engineer beware, I've got a third grader in hot pursuit....
posted by emma at
10:54 PM
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