The Lake of One's Being

01 August 2007

Widely acclaimed Port Angeles poet Tess Gallagher tells it this way:

"It is a faithful rain. You feel it has some allegiance to the trees and the people...It brings an ongoing thoughtfulness to their faces, a meditativeness that causes them to fall silent for long periods, to stand at their windows looking at nothing in particular. The people walk in the rain as within some spirit they wish not to offend with resistance."

One must be rather fluid to live under water;

one must learn to flow with a pulse greater than one's own.

A tolerance for misting gray days mean an acceptance that life itself is not black and white, but in between.

Gray.

...

The Atlantic was born today, and I'll tell you how:
The clouds above opened up and let it out.

I was standing on the surface of a perforated sphere
When the water filled every hole.
And thousands upon thousands made an ocean,
Making islands where no island should go.
Oh no.

Most people were overjoyed; they took to their boats.
I thought it less like a lake and more like a moat.
The rhythm of my footsteps crossing floodlands to your door
Have been silenced forever more.
The distance is quite simply much too far for me to row
It seems farther than ever before
Oh no.

I need you so much closer I need you so much closer
I need you so much closer I need you so much closer
I need you so much closer I need you so much closer
I need you so much closer I need you so much closer

The chords before the song starts always gets me. Always.
The faint running of a train on the tracks somewhere...
It makes me wonder. It makes the heart quiver.

That plaintive repeating at the end.
If hearts could sing, I imagine they'd sound just like that.

12:17 AM;

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