the nature of miracles

this morning: pacabel. small stretched string sections crawled out across me early as anything and i (hungover), swept wayside and leaned into the speaker barely at all where every cure for every sickness rests. it is winter out with it's stinging cold winds and breaking air that falls around you with a loose inner chill, but it only touches me in the most peripheral way. in winter, i am alive and seething. i am growing outwards in every direction like the sound of those overdone strings on canon and how everyone knows them so well

everywhere there are the signs of things dying and now, before rebirth, they are the life and times that have surrendered to that curse and favor of all gods and men: impermanence. this is the nature of miracles: careful and plotted out into small blueprints formed in dust by the makers of all things sacred and held closely to the chest of the universe for each of us to suckle at.

and floating.

around me is a light kind of peace, one without pressure or weight, just moments strung together in that funny little timeline called life and my, how we get so much and so little of it and all too often let it slide right past without ever taking the time to watch the snow falling quietly, perfectly outside of windows or listen to the crackle of fireplaces worn through with wet wood and smokey rooms: cheap beer. or laughing with casual friends and telling stories about the best and the worst of it and listening while others do the same.

today, i could arch the world onto my back and not grow weary because, today, in the winter air, with a hangover and that silly fuck pacabel playing in the background of my mind: there is nothing i cannot endure. i am made of the same colors and materials as stars and dancing between them in that quiet place where all good things come forth from.

everything is happening everywhere and i, a lone soul in the wilderness, am a part of it: this great and dazzling stage play put on by a madman wandering in and out of conciousness. and from that strange and bitten file of currents and sways comes the small details of satisfactions and lovemaking and joy real joy like mountain tops and long valleys leading into the dense green forever. and mornings.

in them hide everything we need to be happy and free, and sometimes, if we're careful and do not shudder, we can see the way that things form and how they are all coming together all the time and going apart just to come back together again like the ends and beginnings of days and in the tail lights of these small and delightful events there are calm moments and among them is this morning of mine.

it's simple, like the truth and when i walk beneath the large oak trees behind my home i find myself dropping down the tones of emotion and watching the colors around me brighten: this between my shivers and shakes.

i am a fountain of head motions and arms held outwards and upwards and somehow, i can reach the sky.

the faces of every person i pass are brimming with quiet joys, little pleasures like the way a dog wags it's tail at strangers or the way the old couple on the block still walk each other to their cars in the morning or how any one good thing happens and it sorrounds you like a cloud and pulls into itself (gravitationally) every person nearby and every object and place and makes of them a backdrop to the carefully woven texture of perfect things.

today is made of perfect things.

this morning: pacabel. and everything is right.

2004-12-09 | 9:37 p.m.
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