I know little of morphic fields, and have long since given up morphia. And so I seek inspiration from what surrounds me. For instance, this morning’s absence of broken glass in the alley: a hopeful thing. And so I walked, waking, with each step. My ichabod-crane-body leaving a slight wake in the still air. I am, I thought, a passing guest. And sometimes I’m so fine with it.
I arrive at my table and before first thoughts at coffee I hear the ring of a twelve-string guitar. Like the one I bought with the money from a season of custom harvesting. The only money I had left after smashing into my boss’s pick-up with a loaded grain truck. I was driving blind in a wide open field, the sunset deep, way past my eyes, deep in my head, colouring the back of my skull. And then a stop so sudden… That sunset cost me everything except a twelve-string guitar. I didn’t think twice, it was alright and I sailed the hull of that Yamaki to the coast where I continued a lazy apprenticeship in noticing.
Noticing a precise moment, as delicate as the scent of jasmine on a sleepy breeze. Its contents is a large brown purse slung over a shoulder and a DATS bus that is apparently on time. It picks up a slight body wearing a red coat cinched with a four inch belt, shoulder straps and large black buttons. She sports painted black hair and damned-if-I-care rouge. Ready to engage this raggedy world once more.
Her day is one more page in an epic. I pray it will be worthy of a bookmark. Personally I’ve known too many blank pages (dog-eared days). Sometimes a train of days will go unnoticed.
But sometimes in the full blush of a moment, one must drive blindly into a sunset–or stall that train. Hope for train robbers on horseback to catch us, steal the gold, tie up the engineer, and send us hurtling down the track without any knowledge of what is around the bend…a Holstein cow perhaps…a guy taking a crap, or a holystone on the rail that sends the train down the embankment. Because who knows what the valley holds?
