Coming home
I haven’t wanted to write for a while now…too many fragments of things staring me in the face, and it is always harder for me to go back to something after the initial burst of work on it has passed. Still, I think we all feel the double burden of the immense images within us, and most of us find effective ways of expressing them. sometimes it is a poem for me, sometimes an essay like this, sometimes an earnest conversation with a good friend. But, they eek their way out, and the more effective we become at expressing them, and truly them, is what I think qualifies us as artists, and humans, and its all proportional.
Tonight, I watched a movie at an old friend’s house who lives about a half mile from me. Everyone was asleep in the room when the movie ended, so I decided not to trouble anyone and just walk home. It has been raining here, but it is a tropical rain, and its pleasant. Outside, it was a lot lighter than I had anticipated, and the thunderheads in the overhead sky made the horizon sky all around like a sunrise by comparison. The trees were shillouttes and most were hunched against the wind that blew random large droplets sideways and scattered across the road. I slept out on the netting of a catamaran once, as we sailed a day away from a tropical storm, and tonight the wind and the droplets were the same, and brought back the memory of that trip with retrospective force. And, coming home, walking in the middle of the road the whole way, sometimes whistling to myself, sometimes listening to the whistling of the trees, was like coming home from some place far away. And now, as I write this, with a flashlight by my side in the blackout of the storm, I am still coming home from far away memories and their emotions. I have been doing so this entire break. And I am glad, because the part of me I am coming home to is the part that wants to walk in the midnight storm, and it’s the best part. It’s the part that finds a clumsy voice for the larger things, and I have missed it.
The wind and storm
Are a thousand voices
Coming home in the predawn.
Even the frogs
Welcome the rain
With clumsy song.
I hope Y’all enjoy the rest of your break. I hope this wasn’t too moody for you. Ill change the template to something pastel :)
Tonight, I watched a movie at an old friend’s house who lives about a half mile from me. Everyone was asleep in the room when the movie ended, so I decided not to trouble anyone and just walk home. It has been raining here, but it is a tropical rain, and its pleasant. Outside, it was a lot lighter than I had anticipated, and the thunderheads in the overhead sky made the horizon sky all around like a sunrise by comparison. The trees were shillouttes and most were hunched against the wind that blew random large droplets sideways and scattered across the road. I slept out on the netting of a catamaran once, as we sailed a day away from a tropical storm, and tonight the wind and the droplets were the same, and brought back the memory of that trip with retrospective force. And, coming home, walking in the middle of the road the whole way, sometimes whistling to myself, sometimes listening to the whistling of the trees, was like coming home from some place far away. And now, as I write this, with a flashlight by my side in the blackout of the storm, I am still coming home from far away memories and their emotions. I have been doing so this entire break. And I am glad, because the part of me I am coming home to is the part that wants to walk in the midnight storm, and it’s the best part. It’s the part that finds a clumsy voice for the larger things, and I have missed it.
The wind and storm
Are a thousand voices
Coming home in the predawn.
Even the frogs
Welcome the rain
With clumsy song.
I hope Y’all enjoy the rest of your break. I hope this wasn’t too moody for you. Ill change the template to something pastel :)
posted by Aaron Allen at 10:18 AM
2 Comments:
the image of the snow angel, I think due to your initial interest, is still pressed upon the back of my eyelids.
wasnt it amazing. it must have been there overnight, the way the edges were rounded and unhuman, no break in the snow, just a slope. Quite the image in the middle of the symmetrical courtyard.
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