the land of the dead starts to shake and shiver, because the brother on the other side of the grass, the one where people tend to rub their feet and not notice any of the multiple systems of signs that are there, ripe for interpretations, has turned away from a purity toward honduras and nicaragua leaves, and is starting to fall a little bit in love with acid cigars.
this isn't a big turning point, or even a slightly essential moment in the story, but it shows some signs that things have shifted. there's a little more money these days, and more work. taking care of those ill at ease with their physical body's situation, pretending to be ill at ease, taking off clothes in front of everybody's sister, reading spirit signs in residue from the breath, and giving birth to old spirits in new heads, all of these help pay the rent, and it should make it easier to sleep. he's waking up more often than not, and on some mornings he finds himself thinking more about the next cigar than anything else. as much as he would like to deny the signs of middle age approaching (the back is still so very strong, and the quest for the endlessly romantic bread of human hunger still running just below the skin, and the patience for hot days because of the potential for the hot nights), this is one that is hard to keep outside the door.
but a secret, and not a new one, and not one that makes much difference in the land of differance, the smoke makes for an easy and clear communication with the dead. he travels through the graveyards, and wants to know if he could be the figure on the band, smoking the strangely fascinating herbal cigars at all the best raves with a dayglo mohawk strapped to his helmet. that he is starting to shift in another direction, slightly more funky than the last, comes as no surprise, and even the most conservative of the ancestors has decided not to tell him to try playing this life a little more even-keeled, because even the dead are convinced that in these neon bones he gets to meet the most interesting people in the world.
on the best nights, in the best conversations between the dead and the living, the best thing that can happen is not a good spell to bring a lover back, or a good way to make the body sweet to attract like sweetness, but the agreement that we are conceived in love, that when we conceive love in our thoughts we give birth to worlds that make it clear that there is no distinction between the living and the dead, and everything we do affects each other. this love isn't cautious, they say. this love is reckless and necessary.
this isn't a big turning point, or even a slightly essential moment in the story, but it shows some signs that things have shifted. there's a little more money these days, and more work. taking care of those ill at ease with their physical body's situation, pretending to be ill at ease, taking off clothes in front of everybody's sister, reading spirit signs in residue from the breath, and giving birth to old spirits in new heads, all of these help pay the rent, and it should make it easier to sleep. he's waking up more often than not, and on some mornings he finds himself thinking more about the next cigar than anything else. as much as he would like to deny the signs of middle age approaching (the back is still so very strong, and the quest for the endlessly romantic bread of human hunger still running just below the skin, and the patience for hot days because of the potential for the hot nights), this is one that is hard to keep outside the door.
but a secret, and not a new one, and not one that makes much difference in the land of differance, the smoke makes for an easy and clear communication with the dead. he travels through the graveyards, and wants to know if he could be the figure on the band, smoking the strangely fascinating herbal cigars at all the best raves with a dayglo mohawk strapped to his helmet. that he is starting to shift in another direction, slightly more funky than the last, comes as no surprise, and even the most conservative of the ancestors has decided not to tell him to try playing this life a little more even-keeled, because even the dead are convinced that in these neon bones he gets to meet the most interesting people in the world.
on the best nights, in the best conversations between the dead and the living, the best thing that can happen is not a good spell to bring a lover back, or a good way to make the body sweet to attract like sweetness, but the agreement that we are conceived in love, that when we conceive love in our thoughts we give birth to worlds that make it clear that there is no distinction between the living and the dead, and everything we do affects each other. this love isn't cautious, they say. this love is reckless and necessary.
No comments:
Post a Comment