among the torn silks of phrase

music: chopin waltzes no. 1-14, dinu lipatti
mood: when i dance

polaroids taken from the ever-wonderful tender letters

the bus swings round in the gravel sphere at the very end of the road, the brakes streaking the silence; the engine, the engine. do you see it, the pale indigo of springtime nights and how the forgotten lunar smudge is darkening the sky? headlights on the white birch shapes by the roadside and then disappear. "you've come way too far. you should have gotten off ages back and now you're going to have to wait till we turn around." i watch the dried & tangled hulls of ships, the lego-brick piles of lobstertraps, the feeling of the otherside blurring by. sometimes, i feel like a story-collector who has become a gatherer of things and i do not know how where and which the stories. "here," he says. "take the first road on the left, because that is where you're going." he cannot know that written over and over all the pages of my notebooks is this: conviction enough for stillness.

it is middling night when i leave the cove, and in the coolness, under the streetglow moon all i can hear is the wind between the layers of my sweaters, the purity of motion and the footfalls of a dog walking ten kilometers over the cordillera hills of country road. i'd forgotten the elation and the easy hum of bicycle wheels, how effortless the here to there, how joyous. (this happiness is fizzy like the fountain soda we sipped from straws hours earlier at the shopping mall.) the damp air smells deeply of brine and promise. i am ten years old. this is that summer evening with darkness draws in and we are wary for the silhouettes of parents in the driveway. we will never be finished with this resinous day.