the shudder speed of moving things

today, i am making sense of the past. i am turning fresh green leaves over with the tips of my feet, thinking about the last time your eyes caught mine: frustration. there is a strange feel to the warmth of the day. i'm outside, a cigarette fumbled between my lips, drawing forth conclusions that can only be made with inhales, exhales: long and sweet. the sun beats high over head, a blazing sort of heat but the breeze knocks event he hotest days down to a mellow chant, i'm walking into the courtyard trying to put peices of a strange puzzle together in my mind. things are turning over everywhere. everywhere changes, growing things, love, light, asphalt beneath my feet (not true asphalt, but the sort that lays around pools in residential areas, the type that makes you hunger for more than the less you're used to. this floor gets slippery when it rains. i could tell you that, even had i not spent a few moments from time to time slip-sliding around, keeping balance, feeling very much the high texas surfer, with only broken sky waves beneath me). trying not to think about at every last hour of every day is more difficult than the list of tasks i should be completing just now. but i am not doing those things. i walking, smoking, leaning into shade, my thoughts have turned to you. today, all feelings are frequent. i am putting you intot he perpective of all things that exist: the falling of water from the sky, the freshness of flowers, the casual nature of sentences: i am forging into the grammar of loving you. it would be easier to find new sights, or sounds that fill my ears only in their presence (or in due closeness) but trapping you in or out of my mind is a struggle i refuse to win. i adore you more than all things which grow or sigh, sleep or swoon.

i am thinking of your fingers spreading out like spilled milk on tabletops while you talk, subtle gestures that attach themselves to the mood of the room. you are bigger than the rooms you're in. i am leaning carefully against a handicap rail along the ramp that leads to the parklot, watching people who leave work earlier than i (who probably arrived earlier as well) slink intot heir cars and speed off to beat the rush of time that clogs all roads like italian arteries. everything is changing, but i cannot see how.

with cigarettes, i am a habitual flicker. the sort who taps with his thumb on the edge of the filter at a steady pace matched with the beating of my heart. my cherry falls out. i slip my hadn into my pocket with the kind of delicacy that only works properly when reaching for a lighter, or when sliding your fingers down the sides of a beatiful woman. i have found that most great things can be likened to the touching of a woman. there is a woman, crossing the parking lot that looks like you from the rear (i imagine, blisfully, that it is) while she scampers off having retrieved whatever peice of fortune she was looking for in her car: vending machine change, headphones, the phone number of her gentleman friend. i am watching her as the sun folds over her head a little and the hair of her head seems to be haloed by the light. for a moment she is angelic and wonderful: i am thinking of you again.

this morning, by early light i was flipping through the pages of a book, murkami, and reading spots and portions, tidbits of ecstacy flowing thorugh me, and suddenly, here, while i shoudl be working, i crave that same sort of alliance, that same tested system of longings and urges. the leaves in trees overhead sway and i imagine them engaging in dances (tango, mambo, all of the rich latin styles). i can almost feel them smile. somewhere, i have smiles and comfort not unlike those leaves. not unlike the birds i am watching bathe in the creekbed just beyond the steep incline beyond the parking lot. the first, black, beautiful dips it's head beanth a small bit of water and raises it in a fluid motion that looks casual, but i know, having observed, that this is a skill, indeed, an artform, the leaning into of water and leaning back to allow the water to slide back across it's head with all acuracy cleaning whatever scrambled mess has gathered. the second bird seems to be newer at the activity of bathing, less sensual about it all: i imagine this to be male of the two. perhaps with male birds, like men, grace is something we only observe, never really take part in. i feel a sudden kinship with the feebler of the two birds as they finish their bathing and fly off toward new adventures, new dirtiness that will bring them back here before the day is through. i hope i am here when they return.

watching them fly away, i remember the things i should be doing, the work that should be getting done, and i turn to grab at the doors and walk in. today is both more and less than the days before.

2004-04-01 | 1:20 p.m.
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