Where we find meaning, it’s deep within ourselves. Not out there—not on the internet. Not in the images of others, other lives, not in the lies—we eat them up, rapacious, with our eyes, until they eat our hearts. We swallow bites of presentation, of fabrication, and digest. We perceive, to occupy our minds. But beneath perception lies the truth inside—unoccupied, we find it in our dreams. The truth is there in music, played on heart-strings, composed upon our skins. The truth is there in tears brought forth by melodies divine, by poetry, by the pangs of night’s desire. These are the essences of meaning that lie beneath our love. Truth is not in shallowness and shortness, short attention spans, short thought. Not in the photos flashing on our phones, swiped and swept aside. The truth is there in notes and notions that run up and down our spines, shiver there, linger there, and infiltrate our souls. I cannot tell you what is truth—but I tell you, it is there.
Tag: night
Garden.
We wove some magic here.
Deckled trees with fairy dust—
the figments of our imaginations drew lines
between the sky
between the leaves
between the earth.
A white butterfly
—wandered, onward, captain of our fairy band—
buffeted by the breeze
took flight
and glittered flicking wings
into the sunlight.
He was like our memory
—allied and squandered to the air—
a captain captive to the passing currents
at rest on tides of drifting listlessness
buoyed on waves of sound—loud
reverbed from the earth itself
and beneath the ground dispersed to nothing but vibrations.
Caws of magpie on the branches of trees
beyond the fence-lines
called insistent, echoed
and, in flight, drew ever more away.
We left a fish adrift on the wall
—light-flicker, silver scales in the sun—
to tinker with our senses
breaking beams against one another in refraction
into parts.
We played colour against cousin
and deployed in every gesture of design
a symmetry of power in all things that’s mirrored
in perfection
by the most broken shook-up thoughts of early morning
when night’s break seems to slumber
beyond the restless sleepless soul.
Little carrions of life
—bearing sunshine as they went
light caught white upon their tiny wings—
darted, tumbled, climbed and flew
their circus one of circles through the sky
an endless repetition of their patterns
that went on gently till the nightfall.
We saw every tiny thing alight
—their edges made their edges
and at once made melting edge-to-edge—
their glimmered rims glimpsed through lashes
looked-at sideways
caught in sketches from the doorways
of the moments
only half-here and half-now.
Sky-shimmers, the lineaments
copied in colour to our files and stored in footloose memory
to make the fodder of our dreams
when distorted
cards shuffled
and re-drawn upon the pages of imagination sleeping.
We weave some magic here
sleeping awake
in day-dreaming
in slow reading
of the air.
Awake.
and in the darkness
in the most-slept moments
the deepest rumbles pass
The North Star.
How I felt upon seeing that bright spot in the sky.
A single, bright star.
So long had I been gazing upon a different sky that I was quite shocked to see it. A single, bright, close star.
My eyes glued to the star as the taxi streaked quietly on into the gloaming, and the star through the window grew only brighter.
And again, she thought that she might cry.
To England, where my heart lies.
Sweet hymnal music and the chirp of springtime’s birds.
Brickwork, colours so varied and subtle, aged. Repainted, refreshed, changed, restored.
Pink Mayfair! Oh, glory!
Just to walk there — here, there, and everywhere — just to walk there is to live. Not for so long — so long — have I felt so alive.
Magical: Day One 