Nov 2010
how remarkable a thing it is, to be struck by lightenings of words, torrents of ideas, chokes of emotions and then stop. and think how is it that i got here, how is it that i do this and say? how is it that i say? and to be overcome with a two year old sense of imagination that does not die until the wee hours of the morning when the birds peck on your window and say hello. you are here, i am here.
and how wonderful it is, when there are leaves on the ground to be kicked aside and cursed at as an excuse for the children, or the dog, or the spouse who left because things are too complicated. and these leaves hold every human emotion, set there by words spoken to them and no one else, set there by a small child who holds the beautiful colors up to a mother that is too distracted to realize that this is the defining moment in a life and you must grasp it and hold it up to the light and wonder through the stained glass effect.
and how it is that we choose to let the world wash over us and over and over and slowly rub away all the pretty age spots that told us we were human, how it is that we do not give all our change to the men sitting on the street, how it is that umbrellas are used every day because some people do not like the rain. when you could open your eyes and pretend you are three and every glimpse of light is a rainbow and there are monsters under your bed and someday you will be a grown-up and do whatever you want to. how it is that people do not become children and stare at the world.
how is it, that when the wind rushes through the trees and rattle, that we shudder? how is it, that when the storms desecrate houses people cry? we could live off moonlight and sunshine and we could go back fifty years, start the movement over and this time do it right. and it wouldn't matter. people would still ignore the warm colors on the ground and focus on the cold, people will still put up brightly colored umbrellas that do not save anything but their wool coats that cost more than a years worth of food for an orphanage in asia, people will still be blind and there will be others who try to open their eyes.
and how wonderful it is, when there are leaves on the ground to be kicked aside and cursed at as an excuse for the children, or the dog, or the spouse who left because things are too complicated. and these leaves hold every human emotion, set there by words spoken to them and no one else, set there by a small child who holds the beautiful colors up to a mother that is too distracted to realize that this is the defining moment in a life and you must grasp it and hold it up to the light and wonder through the stained glass effect.
and how it is that we choose to let the world wash over us and over and over and slowly rub away all the pretty age spots that told us we were human, how it is that we do not give all our change to the men sitting on the street, how it is that umbrellas are used every day because some people do not like the rain. when you could open your eyes and pretend you are three and every glimpse of light is a rainbow and there are monsters under your bed and someday you will be a grown-up and do whatever you want to. how it is that people do not become children and stare at the world.
how is it, that when the wind rushes through the trees and rattle, that we shudder? how is it, that when the storms desecrate houses people cry? we could live off moonlight and sunshine and we could go back fifty years, start the movement over and this time do it right. and it wouldn't matter. people would still ignore the warm colors on the ground and focus on the cold, people will still put up brightly colored umbrellas that do not save anything but their wool coats that cost more than a years worth of food for an orphanage in asia, people will still be blind and there will be others who try to open their eyes.
