Thomas Lowe Taylor -- JUST A PINCH BETWEEN YOUR CHEEK AND GUMS

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A light wind picks up from nowhere, reminding you of its absence. Another hearing deepens the air of its transmission between sentences, and recurring doubt reminds you again of the lack of air inside your impenetrable paragraphs. Perhaps no one is listening inside the heart. Surely, she is there again, still leaniang forward into the next day, and where light becomes presence, the day's details fall hard upon the following songs; in the manner of an impromptu, you think you might again give way into something, something more than this "noticing" you find all around you. No, it's not enough to see the train coming at you, you still have to jump out of the way.

But what is it? there are broken sentences lying all over the place in the manner of this impromptu noticing, or else there is a place ahead of you which is neither locale nor impermanent, only an impairment to clear vision, whatever that is. But you are tired, and there are no fish in the tank, nowhere to go with this "seeming." Maybe there is a profundity even in moments which seem to lack the requisite intensity or sharpness for what you might call profound. You'd like it to mean more than it does, usually, is what it seems to mean.

Saying nothing eloquently, that would be a resting place or the modern disease. Having strip mined the past of its eloquence, deriding its taste and focus into our precious "immediacy," we find solace in possesion of that misery, er, mystery as our own. What gives at the centerless center, a void or an absence, and it's cold, confined to this spot as it were, a spot which is not yet a center. Half light nomads, then, and ahead of the game, you know. It's not a game, you shriek, and pass on by into the wilderness.

The desire to want it to be all right is still the ruling passion for there is no real desire for chaos. No passion is there; if we long for passion it's for the scent of balance it brings with it, not its opposite. Love carries the day, toward tomorrow, toward anywhere out of this place, you sing, We gotta get out of this place, if its the last thing we ever do; probably truer than you'd like to think, if it is even thinking that we do. Emotions are masked in the sequential rationality that language seems to represent; no, we are muttering emotions all the time, body language and all that, a simpler dance of seasons and reasons we might yet puzzle out.

So you reach out and someone is there, light breaking on the highlands of time. Birds are released and climb skyward in their own messages to the heavens. There is a figure hanging in the sky, a celestial hang glider from the other side. When the messenger arrives, you need to be at home, and you need to be listening to the song that comes through your lips again and again, for in the kernals of differentiation you might seem to be real, real enough, that is, for something courageous to new to actually happen, something to redeem those hours you spent Waiting.

This is the air we fly into, polluted and strange, yet it is our medium of expression. Air. Carefully formed barks and grunts with a twist and a chuckle thrown for good luck, but left aside like markers in a trail of signs, emotions disguised as thoughts or their opposite. Where image returns, it's like the dreamer in the dream, for if there is no dreamer, it goes, then there is no dream. Love demounts from its present, carrying us forward into the clamoring sign of the future, wherever that is, for we are coming together, and just as what lies fallow must arise, so too does love carry us forward into the next second, and we do not let go.