We leave houses behind and everything in them. Nothing follows us. Whatever is left on the walls is left to them. Keys on the piano keep their mute threnodies and nothing can draw them out that is not given first to what might behold them.
Meanders are lost forever to rugs that retain no imprint. Why you passed here and for what matters to nothing and no one. Doors remain shut or open just as you left them. What others might do here cannot matter and never will.
There on a sill, the dust you disturbed when you made for the window to see what or who was doing what and why. The water you drew for slipping into or drinking has run down into places you never dared imagine traveling to.
There porch mats are rendered mosaics in broken leaves and falling suns leave fingerprints along unpainted pickets. Abandoned sofas inter the chitter of children who once jumped there as if tomorrow were but a bounce away.
And so we leave houses and everything behind. Nothing follows that will not itself leave everything behind. In this way a future is born, thrashing, flailing, beset by another thousand troubles that enter this world from the one you left.
It might be the sound of your light silver car coming up the hill running from velvet asphalt to grind and gravel, your sunstroke smile behind the wheel. It might be a holocaust of crow raining black rape on a lone hawk, her cries your cries and the meadowlost cries of the world.
It might be rainbows dancing prisms on white stucco from the pear-shaped crystal you hung from an unused nail waiting for the sun to cycle through the sky in its right season and when it does, Rumi and Basho and Sherman and Harjo because if this doesn’t matter, then what does it matter?
It might be the taste of flu wintering in your mouth, the promises you mean to make to your health, the sloughing off of sicknesses not quarantined in the body, ills without names that plague sleep with new moons that pass mute and black across the night.
And it might be a small stone of hope, some overlaid worry hammered onto a distant skin of sea that leaves your own bones untouched to remind your eyes that in this looking there are no answers save that everyone tables the same feast, the same morsel of abundance.
wisdom is worth all we lose to attain it. ~aucassin verdé
i wonder if the artist ever lives his life-—he is so busy recreating it. only as i write do i realize myself. i don't know what that does to life. ~anne sexton
you must acquire the trick of ignoring those who do not like you. in my experience, those who do not like you fall into two categories: the stupid and the envious. the stupid will like you in five years time. the envious, never.~john wilmot, 2nd earl of rochester
art arises when the secret vision of the artist and the manifestation of nature agree to find new shapes. ~kahlil gibran
creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. art is knowing which ones to keep. ~scott adams
those who don't know how to weep with their whole heart, don't know how to laugh either. ~golda meir
i said to my soul, be still,
and wait without hope,
for hope would be hope
for the wrong thing.
wait without love,
for love would be love
of the wrong thing.
there is yet faith;
but the faith and the love
and the hope are all
in the waiting.
wait without thought,
for you are not ready for thought.
so the darkness shall be the light,
and the stillness the dancing.