4/12/2016 "Rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vîmes, mon âme, Ce beau matin d'été si doux: Au détour d'un sentier une charogne infâme Sur un lit semé de cailloux?"
"My love, do you recall the object which we saw, That fair, sweet, summer morn! At a turn in the path, a foul carcass On a gravel strewn bed?" Charles Baudelaire
I sat on the mossy footstool that lied by the brook- I had to really open my ears to hear the soft regurgitation coming from the clear muddy water, gliding over the slate, piled up the road, the one I drove on that one day we snuck out, was placed gently beside it, uptop a little cliff, I felt this a beatific metaphor.
The air felt amorphous, held a quality I couldn't quite put my finger on. and then I saw a tree,
a crooked one who had seemed to grow on the bank of the creek because life, it seems, imitates art.
Its trunk dipped until it ever so slightly grazed the water its elm fingers almost
almost. I smiled when I saw this, for it gave me hope. I likened myself to the horseflies and new tadpoles that flittered,
seraphic in quality, borne with the quality of new life- the innocent quality the one that just made me feel tainted, the more I surrounded myself with it.
The Friday afternoons on the avenue, with its port wine air and this bubbling black slate brook
are the only places that innocence lives- if I had realized how quiet the soft gargling of the cherub water was
I'd have stopped the car and baptized ourselves In it.