Speaking was much easier when we last spoke of these or any other things. No time or space in our eternal now, we find enchantment not added upon with the perspective that comes with distance. We kick and scratch for every hold, digging, bruising and chipping flesh and stone, immediacy dissolving civilization’s difficulties against a fingernail securing our flimsy wet spirit tank to this thin air through which we could slip toward a center that begs our approach, and so our defiance. You can only go so high until the peak begins to wear from our jumping for a better view, as though a fence blocked the way. Angels carry us through clouds until the blue falls and all prepositions become meaningless. No worms or apples here. Up is no more. From here on out, far and near are fleshly constraints measured with sticks and thrown stones.
Lofty desires.
Melodies dance like raindrops on our desert streets, steaming until the cool of cloud-soak pacifies clay, closing cracks and washing away the hard shell, softening seeds laid dormant since our grandfather’s birth. No matter who put them there, dropped their treasured code, coded treasure in just the right place. These are a few of the survivors, cast in safe numbers so, so high that a row of all nines gets nudged over until it becomes a one with more zeros than days I’ve lived. Longer than any train I’ve ever seen. One is an engine and the zeros are cars. It’s a long, long train. We all got tired of waiting for it to pass. Turned our motors off, started talking about the neighborhood and almost had all the world’s problems solved. Still complaining about how long and slow this thing. Then the rattling stopped. Time to get going again, except not everybody’s car will start. You ain’t heard whining to you heard all them horns go off that do no good but whine and make you jump up and down and whine just as bad like they stop if you do.
Seeds are patient, not springing where life is not born, where it cannot be born. They will not converse to pass the seasons and droughts, to lament the dusty winds that polish old bones fallen, once fertile.
Lessi say how come it smell that way.
What way. Good or bad. What way, is what I say.
She say it bad smell. No. Not bad. Funny.
But she don’t laugh. I know what she mean. Funny. She just never smelt all these smelly smells like is is. Got to tell you it been long time for me since I did too. Not since I was little as her with her nose so closer to the ground than mine even if she don’t kneel or squat or sit or bend or no. Not a matter, anyway. Knowing what I know now so agey like I am I know smells blend all in together the far you are from where they all started.
Better from here, I say.
She don’t know I am like her in my head, right now, like when I was her youngy, like when was the first and last time I smelt these same smells, holding on to of my grandpa’s dirty old hard hand of his, telling him how funny like the smells were, looking at that face like I look now, jaw a square and eyes blue like that sky over down by that river when the sun up behind a cloud.
How better, she wants known, cause I only right next to her and we smelly same, same thingy things.
So I tells her all what I’m thinking, what been, what was, what will be as far as the rain can fall and rise, and how from here I mean from where she is at her youngy when me and my mine is up here all in my oldy. Cause when I was in her younginess like she be, I jumped and stomped to my grampa about how it was smelling all smelly a smell, smell, funny, but I couldn’t laugh cause my thumb and pointy finger of mine squeezed shut my nose of mine tight like my dearly gone home honey’s air pipe got when a day and a night dropped down colder than that water in that same river when the sun up behind a cloud. And I’m thinking, and so I tells her, take it all in. Next time you smell these smelly smells you be like I am in my oldy and then you remember when you were like you are in your younginess.
Stenches of childhood spawn the fragrant joys of memories, connecting cells to emotions, emotions to memories, memories to channels burned so brightly we see them as fresh as garden rain, seeds having lain dormant.
Fearing what I feared all along, that what I feared would happen would happen, even though it hadn’t happened since I was her youngy, and all I seen since pointed to maybe not again in my time, oldy as I get more oldy all the time. Even time get all old all time. Some call him an old man. Time is an old man, got to get more oldy but not changing. Only the youngy go to get oldy and changy change up all along their way.
I’m sitty here write all down these things and hoping don’t nobody reads these things ever or never. So how come I writes them. Cause when I say no, I mean yes, that I hopes people reads all this and forgive me in my time of being all oldy just like the oldy, old ones did when I all youngy the child I was when. My heart all softer now when I old. I cry all time like a baby not with a mommy. But more I more quiet. My heart don’t break like baby heart, youngy heart, mommy and daddy heart. It already been broke so much it don’t break none now anymore ever. Don’t need to. It soft. Hurt just go right through like when some such fool throw money into water. It just go right to bottom and stay for no reason to charity come for and clean it all up. That my heart, like a fountain, not cold, not hot, just all soft to take in what hurt like it did when all youngy. But it don’t hurt like once it. Don’t need to hurt. Hurt wouldn’t change a thing any, which is why I don’t hurt no more. Don’t need to.
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This is from Grampa’s diary and reads like the sound of his voice.
Speaking was much easier when we last spoke of these or any other things. No time or space in our eternal now, we find enchantment not added upon with the perspective that comes with distance. We kick and scratch for every hold, digging, bruising and chipping flesh and stone, immediacy dissolving civilization’s difficulties against a fingernail securing our flimsy wet spirit tank to this thin air through which we could slip toward a center that begs our approach, and so our defiance. You can only go so high until the peak begins to wear from our jumping for a better view, as though a fence blocked the way. Angels carry us through clouds until the blue falls and all prepositions become meaningless. No worms or apples here. Up is no more. From here on out, far and near are fleshly constraints measured with sticks and thrown stones.
Lofty desires.
Melodies dance like raindrops on our desert streets, steaming until the cool of cloud-soak pacifies clay, closing cracks and washing away the hard shell, softening seeds laid dormant since our grandfather’s birth. No matter who put them there, dropped their treasured code, coded treasure in just the right place. These are a few of the survivors, cast in safe numbers so, so high that a row of all nines gets nudged over until it becomes a one with more zeros than days I’ve lived. Longer than any train I’ve ever seen. One is an engine and the zeros are cars. It’s a long, long train. We all got tired of waiting for it to pass. Turned our motors off, started talking about the neighborhood and almost had all the world’s problems solved. Still complaining about how long and slow this thing. Then the rattling stopped. Time to get going again, except not everybody’s car will start. You ain’t heard whining to you heard all them horns go off that do no good but whine and make you jump up and down and whine just as bad like they stop if you do.
Seeds are patient, not springing where life is not born, where it cannot be born. They will not converse to pass the seasons and droughts, to lament the dusty winds that polish old bones fallen, once fertile.
Lessi say how come it smell that way.
What way. Good or bad. What way, is what I say.
She say it bad smell. No. Not bad. Funny.
But she don’t laugh. I know what she mean. Funny. She just never smelt all these smelly smells like is is. Got to tell you it been long time for me since I did too. Not since I was little as her with her nose so closer to the ground than mine even if she don’t kneel or squat or sit or bend or no. Not a matter, anyway. Knowing what I know now so agey like I am I know smells blend all in together the far you are from where they all started.
Better from here, I say.
She don’t know I am like her in my head, right now, like when I was her youngy, like when was the first and last time I smelt these same smells, holding on to of my grandpa’s dirty old hard hand of his, telling him how funny like the smells were, looking at that face like I look now, jaw a square and eyes blue like that sky over down by that river when the sun up behind a cloud.
How better, she wants known, cause I only right next to her and we smelly same, same thingy things.
So I tells her all what I’m thinking, what been, what was, what will be as far as the rain can fall and rise, and how from here I mean from where she is at her youngy when me and my mine is up here all in my oldy. Cause when I was in her younginess like she be, I jumped and stomped to my grampa about how it was smelling all smelly a smell, smell, funny, but I couldn’t laugh cause my thumb and pointy finger of mine squeezed shut my nose of mine tight like my dearly gone home honey’s air pipe got when a day and a night dropped down colder than that water in that same river when the sun up behind a cloud. And I’m thinking, and so I tells her, take it all in. Next time you smell these smelly smells you be like I am in my oldy and then you remember when you were like you are in your younginess.
Stenches of childhood spawn the fragrant joys of memories, connecting cells to emotions, emotions to memories, memories to channels burned so brightly we see them as fresh as garden rain, seeds having lain dormant.
Fearing what I feared all along, that what I feared would happen would happen, even though it hadn’t happened since I was her youngy, and all I seen since pointed to maybe not again in my time, oldy as I get more oldy all the time. Even time get all old all time. Some call him an old man. Time is an old man, got to get more oldy but not changing. Only the youngy go to get oldy and changy change up all along their way.
I’m sitty here write all down these things and hoping don’t nobody reads these things ever or never. So how come I writes them. Cause when I say no, I mean yes, that I hopes people reads all this and forgive me in my time of being all oldy just like the oldy, old ones did when I all youngy the child I was when. My heart all softer now when I old. I cry all time like a baby not with a mommy. But more I more quiet. My heart don’t break like baby heart, youngy heart, mommy and daddy heart. It already been broke so much it don’t break none now anymore ever. Don’t need to. It soft. Hurt just go right through like when some such fool throw money into water. It just go right to bottom and stay for no reason to charity come for and clean it all up. That my heart, like a fountain, not cold, not hot, just all soft to take in what hurt like it did when all youngy. But it don’t hurt like once it. Don’t need to hurt. Hurt wouldn’t change a thing any, which is why I don’t hurt no more. Don’t need to.
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