But not fixed.
All things in fragments occur. And there is still time, so constantly ready yourself for that you would receive. Nothing that is coming to you is sudden, but winding around from an outer region of everlasting.
A far-off, long approaching animate spark. A flame, a dot suspended in eternity dissolved by midnight oblivion and not extinguished.
The speck that is your life, soon enough will disappear. And you must laugh at this, now. It’s only perfect. Right into the glaring vacancy of space thrust your unoffended frailty. Whole and from the lovingly riotous kernel of your infinitesimal being. And broiling your chemistry to the plenitude of amusement, burst open to the throes of raining hilarity, with every fibre electrified to a poise in expressions of your overjoy, dance a maddening dance. Flail a distort of atmosphere, dodging comets and hopping orbits, stomp a crack in the cosmos floor and rupture the very fabric of this realms walls. May the ruckus convulse into wave upon sublime wave of your significance sent rolling out over an ocean of stars and hush, collecting and collapsing them in thunderous pops and whips heard a thousand eons after as murmurs of distant crashed-upon celestial midnight shores. Lighter than an eyelash on your cheek or a spirits farewell kiss, that snowflake on your lip, – the glimpse of a streak you think you saw of a star might have fallen; a bump, some shudder the consciousness felt, that stirred the dust settled on inquisitiveness, and bothers the unguarded hours of sleep, echoing into the abyss and hollow of unfinished dreams to no one – ‘What was that?’
Thus seems the night as day, the globe perennially ablaze soaked fair by lamp shade. It was all you! the jolly frolicking fiend in the moon, can children see. And laugh you must, is all that’s good. The running smile kind that thins the air and bounds into howl. Let the planets tremble on their quiet line, of levity pitch, disintegrating satellites and muffling the shrieks and wails of the Banshee into the finest whisper of peace across a cloud-cast plain. To what melodies you hear; chime of the angels, the drum of colliding debris or chorus o’ groaning spheres, – though forever will quit of thee, – Keep on thy immortal rhythm. They will know enough but you will feel all can felt be, spanning a tiny entirety in a blink of histories across the great warped gulf of this nothing place. May struck, even the Sun look twice from its throne, the flicker that was you, somehow something still.
This, or you might be gone already.
The many heart whelming wonderments on grand and open display on Earth, and the countless thrilling prospects for life that, by courageous pursuit gifts curiosity, most terribly can not all be heeded. Not in the one tiny lightning span of furiously and incrementally dying star-matter, ye speck of darting ideas and burning unanswerable yearning, – all the age of the cats-eye cosmos in which you drift reproachingly dispossessed is meager. And with this impermanence of everything except desires capacity, rides a horridness and beatitude of the matters marble finality, in swirls of knotted letting go, and inconsolable affections.
It was under a glaze of April stars a bright man once said in passing, ”you do not need to know it all, but you need to know that it exists,” and with his cryptic wistful knowledge of a liquid future, folded into the arms of Autumn night forever. And standing there at the forests mouth fixed on the abyss of living shadows for what seemed an unverifiable lastingness, trying to anything from nothing decide when suddenly it fell to my senses to interpret a grave impossible error realised. All that ecstasy of hope and youthful nonchalance became an unconvincing foothold on a berg, and peering out from the precipice, was a stare that resembled the cold recognition of an unquestionable period in loom. Clean of its laughter, gloom and growth, the entire globes face shall be wiped, – all myth, ambition, strife and persevering preciousness overlapped, and a new transience for a time will flourish with the same world-old obvious riddles that have been only now to you unveiled and will as ever ensue. Against this, have you no recourse. Fortune abides no finery of preference upon whom perceives the tenure either an absurd string of predestined miracles, or an accidental monotony of spilled instances and interactions. These things that ne’er may be considered save by who withdraws from the spinning to contemplate the sentiments of his sentient fraction of forever. While for some, fettered up in some distracting drudgery or other the glimpse will not occur. The portals, will simply close unnoticed and with them gone that chance particular for a vision different if at least not better. But you, bursting, all exulting traveller, for whom the sheerness and extent of eternal synergy is unbearably inaccessible; how dreadfully fatal to admit that could anything be for nought on a lumbering sphere, wading mute with its meaninglessness across a pool of black infinity. So you’ve applied your fantastic and rhythmless imagination to making do, – with its vastness of irrational potency, the source of both your cleanest and most contagious of rejoices, and severest despairing. Well sir, after the crash and fallout, and gravity of presupposed pointlessness, some of us kept on wondering; and so we keep wandering, so as not to have missed a single worthwhile thing.
It is beautiful and it breaks you heart to look up and see home in the endless glade of impossible-to-reach heavens. For you are of the very same stuff as composes the Stars, that smiling in their silence conceive only that you will rejoin them, and so gaping linger dangerously into the dawn until one by one, day puts them out, and their wishes you cannot live up to.
A shower broke overnight and has left a blanket of beaded gleam and Yellow Ginger flower across the face of things we used to sit on. The air, a capricious haze of coasting spray, adrift of fountains heavenly, carries along its light essence a most cleanly and gratifying fragrance as sinks the worries into a whelming and delicate evanesce.
Wonder may one what far off golden and glorious estate whence this lavish lees springs, – but all the reachable world at our toe tips is an open and bounteous garden in which to plunge the care riddled senses.
And how like me to receive this lap of blessings today, that with Her focused crayon signature, Nature in coy and animated loveliness offers.
How expensive the wisdom bejewels the merest events in our lives.
Who over my rudders reigns, I have gratitude for in spades, for where I think I am going appears a rather worthy destination, and would assuredly not, but for how I came; and he whom from the clay knot, by labours edge carved will be; may just be shaped in likeness of a decent fellow.
Looking on the world with travellers eyes (1), my dear aims sheer and impossibility befalls a frightful share, but soon after I’m glad, subsides. I have had some rehearsal through the years, cultivating the habit of disagreement, – believing in amazing things that seem encouragements to avoid, have no reasonable fitting place in possibilities orbit. There is not for much of my spent light I can relay with clearness and ongoing validity, but since I began calling more often on that little ember of wonderment, – flickers desperate in the recesses, giving it strength day by day, I’ll tell you, and for certain this; that though we can not disagree many may devastations approach us along the way; though we can not disagree, heavy is the task and long the course to bear it, that will most come to bear alone throughout, – and they carry best in solitude who will often sad and fearful prove; though we can not disagree, after all that, a great and final defeat lies waiting, and without repent will close all things forever, to end the story will few ever read. Yet for this plentiful and miserly lack, still, my friend disagree we MUST, and by the pale lamplight of unfettered and seeming illogical denial, try; through every single unthinkable step in our going, by our own hearts and whole, unaided of any or star, else perish in place, cold and mourning.
“…and what will you do for your birthday, it is raining out?” So enquired The American Girl.
“But see, I mean to let it rain,” I began. “I will watch it here awhile. I may also read a little, release my chaffing curiosities into the sky, to soar whither and perch on what they will. But certainly no more than that. It will be a day like any other, spent with love, in lovely things. Could what be more estimable?”
Somehow an invisible hook into place had glided all the during I spoke, and heaving lifted carefully, achingly supple lip flesh, – those sweet borders, desires plum and rest, through ye passed the most alluring discourse tonight, – into a precisely disarming smile, and that same meticulous breath, broke one rampant star of its cluster, exploding into the sky of her galaxy eyes. Leaning in utterly, American girl doused me in a terrible and instantaneous scare, breaching irreverently a long prepared order for such charmed address, then at last ashamed of my inflexibility, and feebly inauthentic in this pleasant and crystal souls luminous presence who sees no peril in the wings and acts on all her hearts ideas, bearing only the finest of rarefied human qualities, I have never seen folded as neat nor slipped into so cordial and inviting a form. Longing to bury myself in her warmth and snowing berry scent, shaken fresh with the stir of hands sliding softly forward to me, over her brown able thighs and hitch suddenly the smothering seduction at the shimmering smooth knee-surface, in lip biting coolness, palpably craved.
“I feared at first, your course impression,” with a fingers faint whisper along the surface of my bare, densely illustrated arm, overjoyed follicles and nerves to alien tenderness quicken. “But you smile like a sunlight through the tree tops, and the rain goes away.”
Abruptly a chasm in Nature.
Before this, I was busy minding my own life, when The Savagely Beautiful South American Girl locked tight my attention, perhaps by caring cruelly so little for any. A hair-trigger ensnarement of my faculties at first sight and sweet native note rolled from her dainty pink aerialist tongue, an ease and lean limbed finesse of lustful sorcery, reserved for fables endured of men formerly stoutly in content fallen to an amorous lot, still looking up on impact. Such a cleverly slender, fascination crafted here, flush of luxuriously chaste auburn silk immaculately curved to cleaving leopard eyes, far away escaped pitch of black with pearl of homely hazel swirls, into fall all secrets.
Invisible aisles glided with gazzelle-acuity, poised and wild, sofa bound flurried elegance, behold eyes a dancers apparition, graces the Earth but touches never, – choir of capable contours in fluid going and whirling awe of jet mane with backhand bright green tips brushing a waist for comfortable careful hands and being held high within, but this one her own bounds leaps, uncatchable.
I did however once corral a look, and the victory of it was so profound and terrifying I knew not with it what to do, – that consciously ambling while with, had lost the physical clutch, to the journal apparent in which, no doubts abound, that written about me, much less is penned than of thee, in mine.
I was managing my distresses and arriving begrudgingly at the rightful conclusions, when for the first time appeared The American Girl; sat herself in front of me, convivial and strong, pouring immediately sheen and convalesce. When she left, pulled me close and held as tightly as would embed deeper all the protective gems of well wishing were room enough to leave in the soil of me, for safe carriage all the rest of my days. I don’t recall being ever embraced so thoroughly fondly, and sunk aggressively into her precious tear salted nape my fervor warmed cheek, loving thoughts folded perfectly and hidden under the earlobe, like secrets you couldn’t say, naked in letters to read later, the long sad reminiscing ride home.
I held her hard, burying back in private, some of those gems she could not afford to give but gave darling the same. Dizzying scene, and perfume of skin zest and Summer mountain dirt whence I should have been, where vistas make angels eye lashes cease to flicker that now flutter against my brow, and crashing hips manoeuvre for closer grooves alerting early chemistries, teaming wanting tendencies. I invented thus a jest flew like a cool stream in the tropical heat, so she bellowed a laugh, sounded of a smile dancing like no somenabitch anywhere was watching, but startled heaven did look and sighed ’twere not so nice up there.
It turns out I like the people down here sometimes after all, and carry dear in my chest, a satchel of keepsake kisses with me throughout the world. Hitchhiker farewells are the worst, the warmest, and sincerest, making more temperate the cold hello of regular folk.
This is the last night in your own bed for some time, and there is an alveolus melancholy unfolds your repose; when strange pillows will nestle ambling thoughts. But you’ve craved long this new trouble, like secrets of saccharose, and must let wash over you its mastery implied. The stars now will hold your dreams, and bid vault thee loose of tethers customs, into the intimate revolution on the other side of a threshold toward infinity. But one fine sleep now walls your wildness, and soon enough at hand will it be, the going hour. Some know this feeling, of calm supra cusp; the breath on Winters window. Ripeness broiling at the fringe, at the steps of High School Balls. Poised withal, the upright young woman going to her first dance under the lights.
I took West my walk today, to be nigh the Sun as she dies behind the lime prairie. The East with its darker dominion presses a blue-violet engulf and nothing can tempt me thence hath not warmer magnanimity than even a failing Winter Sun, that toppling at last hath brought down with her wan, sections of oblivion’s curtain, shaking to attention the Eastern sentry Stars. Her lamenting vapoury aids assemble, and the woeful fray permits my furtive ascension upon the lavender smears to make a smuggled and diffident escape through tangerine tears, and survive a principle legacy;
that is to shine irreverently and unconditionally with all thy worldly might, a blinding and suffuse benevolence upon all beings and their conduct, just and unjust alike, before the night, as surely it will, envelops us all.