You know, I’ve been reading, I read, I read a lot every day, about China’s declining cement production, the 34th-round pick of the Cowboys sponsored by Wells Fargo and the Cubs’ quarterback draft choice, new video tracking surveillance by fossil fuel companies against Bill McKibben and Hungary’s upcoming refugee referendum, rising nationalisms in Estonia and then maybe Croatia, and which countries bombed whose hospitals and children today. I read about Edmonton’s raging wildfire and how much renewable energy Scotland has, the Democratic Party’s fight over superdelegates and that hash browns count as vegan food at Dunkin’ Donuts. I read about a phrase that wasn’t on old maps, and which new translated novels have been adapted for film. Activists are burning ivory in Kenya, 105 tons, and they’ll burn £5M of punk memorabilia soon, in both cases to keep it from the market, and make a point. A dozen little hands flailing are trying to pinch the hollow under my shoulder in front. There are bird-chattering and mild crunching sounds; traffic noise far below.
Yet something has changed. I see love as the great leveller now. Whatever we are or do, love finds a way finally bringing us in. When steeled will bursts, or goes pear-shaped, love glides onto edges of awareness, figure-skating if you will on the minisci of fluoresecent lime tarts — love’s gentle purpose feeds back in. & we who had the audacity, seeking to level love, as if it were a roll-out bed of lavender — a fragrant garden to delight all season, as seen on TV (Why pay shipping? Sale! Sale!) — ersatz, faux, ostensible, dissimulated — love will place the coins of fertilizer on our eyes.
Joyce was only 70-something when she died. Seems she was diabetic. She lay on the floor for two days and no one came. She used to make costumes for all the kids in the after school program whenever they had a performance. This morning Susan died — Martin’s wife. My mother will travel by train up to Poughkeepsie tomorrow for the funeral.
There’s a fire brigade in the heart of warmth, ready for when the dry heart catches.
I mean there is no more time for conquering; no time for despair. The whistles and chugging of the machinery necessitate urgent prayer — and Mystery, Pisistratus. Mystery is rife throughout the soil of bugbear land, would we but give it space to breathe.
So can I get a marble cheescake, and, an exfoliant please?