Quiet days

by dschapman

There was a drone and it came out of nowhere. It flew over low ground and it filled up the air with its vital vibrations. Anima, animus; the force that it dwells deep with us, within woman and man, myth and legend, the face of the man as he rose from the ether, the mud as it dripped from his limbs, the ribs as they fell from his ribcage; Ouroboros, cyclical surfeit, scythe and blood sickle. I went to India in the Spring and I came back home feeling all wrong. I’d been to India, and I just felt like a tourist. I’d found nothing. I knew nothing new. There was an old man, but he let me down, and there were no drugs in the streets, and there were no whores in the harem. Polarity, rhythm, cause and effect; the tenets, unyielding, untenable. Cathedral of light, world of the Lichtdom, a world that I lived in where light came from skies into shadows, formed out of earth and of alkaline. Dynamite, one two three, vitamins A, B, C, and D, quiet days in courtyards dead and long forgotten, while foxes leapt over streams in the meadows, while swamps threw up their flames full of furor and trees bent their wills to the fire. “I went to India in the Spring, and I came back home feeling all wrong… I’d been to India, and I just felt like a tourist. I’d found nothing.” I’d been to India, and I… I’d found nothing. Rhythm, polarity, causal inaction, tracings and beatings and mixed-up new miseries. I’ve been in the city and I’ve wandered the halls of the endless menagerie, waiting at the gates for the day to be seized, waiting to seize it with hands cold and clammy. I’ve been in this boat before. I’ve sailed around the world in this boat, drank the rainwater collected in tins. I crept over oceans, floated on waves, crashed up my hull on some barrier reef. Slanting and shadow-cutting a flickering eddy… True doubt!  Trickled in gusts of gold to the shiny flagstone… True regret! Where atoms of amber in the fire mirroring themselves… True visions! Mingled their sarabande to the gymnopaedia… True beauty! Or so it went. I was not sure what it meant; I was no caulbearer. I could not read the glyphs, though they ever did shimmer. I knew they were there – I was a chronic somnambulist, I knew there were words on the walls, in the rivers, in the streets as they flowed always forward. I knew there was something surreal all around me, something like water that thus giveth life, something like sunlight that burns and that nourishes. I waited for dawn with the trumpets all blaring, watching the moon as it shone through the drone of the universe. I played my glass harp in the moonlight, summoning ravenous souls for to rape me on my granite table, waiting in stone for my fable. Stone from the mills fully polished, caravans crossing the sand dunes. This was the universe, at least as I knew it; it was mine, for the moment. I lived in the moment and died with the moment; all for a moment, an instant of luxury, the calling of truth as it twinkled eternal.

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