Tell me more about this long night you speak of. Is it as ominous as my heart contends? But what does my heart know? My heart is loud like a child, impulsive, out to the world, aching for substance. Tell me more about this life as it was to you. Do you contend stranger that we all meet again in the after life? That to cry over the dead is merely not to understand the weight of transition? Tell me about the answers of which I seek.
Is it foolish to grow attached to animals that you cannot house properly? Is it childish to want to overthrow rationality in order to keep them for comfort? I dreamt he wanted to speak to me, black fur prettied with dreads, I dreamt he could write me a message like that of a human poet, like you and I.
The next day I photographed a mysteriously fallen milky airplane stuck in my kitchen window next to the roses that were pink and all dried up. We only keep the dried up ones. The ones with life only remain for so long, and then become art.
My house is a museum full of antique princess figurines. Lives we could get lost in. Never settling on one dream. And yet am I the only one with hope on the outside? Tell me Novalis why does the grey surface so young? To what do I owe the honor of this outward manifestation of my circuits and waterfalls?
Is it this thing we call life? The mystery that rings in the ear? The music that plays spontaneously?
Tell me Novalis how to quiet the heart and learn to work for the greater cause. Trick me in to thinking that color is not comfort and remind me that green will remain only in the heart if I continue to levitate.
How to we balance thee?
when walking a slack lines she falls faint.
Tell me Novalis how to quiet my heart,
for it craves substance and substance is a stranger to time.
If I used the minutes properly I would still need 36 hour days.
Have you seen the Glenbrook sir?
Perhaps Glenbrook is the only space outside of time and in essence all made up, procurred for a weeks worth of euphoria. But in reality we find clocks, we find silver spoons dangling in the sky. Saying no time for this.
Silence child, sleep is calling, the dawn will dry your eyes.
Until dawn and I reconcile Novalis, I will try to make amends with the night.
For faith remains in the loud heart, lulled by fiddles.
March 2008.
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