demanding thunder’s drumrollechoing round the mountains. Salzburgwas never so musical. In his gardena pulsatilla flinched with joy. Beneathhis fast pen, music wrote itself. In this house,the waterpipes made music with the cistern,doors made harmony with window catches; wet shoeswith wooden chairs scraped back. Mathematicsscrawled on walls sang number.Piano lessons were from youth to age,no need…
although ‘there’ is not at all the wordfor where it is – or isn’t –all I can say is,it’s ‘beyond’ –beyond all the knowledge I’ve acquired,beyond the life I love to live,beyond the happiest of happiness..I used to fear ‘beyond’, to fearthe boundlessness –and yet, between(and somehow, the betweenand the beyond seem real good friends)…
a good scrub, put it through the wringeror tumbledry it; hang it on the line outside to dry,let the air go through it; if it rainsleave it out until the sun shines,smell it, iron it, check for wear…have you seen my where around?I’ve looked everywhere, it’s nowhere to be found,it must be somewhere; surely you…
of order; though yes, we like to havespontaneous feelings, it showsthat we are human (not justcontrol freaks, ha) – but we like to feelwe have those feelings, too, withinsome sort of mental framework –Saint Paul stricken, on the road to Tarsus,with a blinding epiphanyis good to read about – it can happento others, great –…
(sorry, gateway timeout…)O Thou Unreachable Server of the Universe,Uncontactable Administrator of our lives,Gateway to our destiny on Earthfrom our log-in to our timeout,hear, we beseech….(sorry, gateway timeout…)
with a little space between them and the floorand though the case was of finest polishedhickory-wood, he’d not given much valued timeto the cheap wood of the interior shelfbelow the shining weight swinging to and froon the pendulum..you don’t often catch a mouse climbing;but the philosophy of all scavengers large and smallis ‘you never know…’…
To sing life’s glory now I’ll seek, these days;to find a greater life through constant praise.
arguing about religion?
How to write of this,unless, until, we’re like him.. old and wise andblind with reading and austerity,speaking of what he’d become;so that we, enfolded in his love,become a little, that of which he writes?On his painful, joyful, great adventureto become the world,seen as Creation sees it,his heart so loved the mind,his mind so loved the…
will it be true love?
