Thursday, June 29, 2017

sacred places



A moment is a sacred place.

Eight years ago I listened to you start to write a song in my living room. What was I doing? Making food, forth and back in the kitchen. I still know the daylight through the window, the stumbling of guitar chord as its bones took on flesh. Layer by layer a magic that I was afraid to interrupt. Your elbow in the corner of my vision--strum, strum. Something born.





We are sitting at the bar and I tell you for probably the thousandth time that we are lucky to be creative. It's painful at times--we can be all nerves and pages but ultimately we are fortunate. I really believe this. Do you know when there is a point you want to stay on but the conversation migrates away? That's how I felt, in the moment. Not one to pound my fist for emphasis but wanted to, a moment. We are lucky to tell it, to have the tool to wrestle with, to be pinned by. I can go anywhere, be as quiet as stillness, and yet I'll continue to carry that obligation/need/desire. I rarely mention the times it keeps me going, the only thing.

We walk to the cemetery; it is night. A bat juts around in the air, and it feels like we are following it or being guided by this winged thing. Deeper on the path with all these graves around us until we hit the pond. As soon as we sit down, rain starts to fall. Since it is dark this change is weather is felt and heard first. Bullfrogs and raindrops. We stay put as long as we can.

A moment is a sacred place. So many that I don't know how my body hasn't broken apart unable to contain the true enormity of it. How are we not in a million pieces? If I write it down will I feel lighter? I will never know what it meant to you. I tell you memory because I need you to know.



And when we leave the sacred what becomes of it? Weather, briefly, contains her. I walked here, I stood until I couldn't. All belongings gone, I think of them silenced to landfill buried with other evidence. Or is that us, the clue of image, surefire proof? Are we what is unowned? My pockets protest; I bust their seams with it. Every moment gets a minute. A soft space, a familiar gait. Every one gets to let go.

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