observation

I read something in Walden a long time ago that continues to resurface in my mind. Thoreau asserts that to be a good writer you must first be a great observer.

I'm probably not so good at observing, at least not in any scientific way,

but I wonder if there is another kind of observation.

An observation:

that a picture wouldn't capture, but a metaphor would.

the kind of observation

where you see a moment like a watermelon lifted up and dashed upon the rocks--exploding.

Or maybe

when you feel the moods of nature bleed out from the sun like melted butter, and glaze the fields a golden hue.

if you just saw a watermelon lying cracked upon a rock you must have been distracted.

You missed it.

You missed all the waking glory;

all the vibrant buzzing,
constant swelling...
and release.

Look closely:

its a moment ready breathing:

steeped in season,

arc of reason

mirrored full and rounded fell--

fall;

stretch and coil

flattened moon,

rolling in...again...

filling sanded shell.

reading

You might find it strange that I have great difficulty reading, as I am an English major.

I do.

Its a mystery. Really.

But I would like to learn.

Reading is akin to letting people exist.

So, in that way, it really is important.

Reading isn't understanding an author's intent.

Thats interpretation, I Am good at that.

Reading is wide eyed and wonderful.

Reading is pouring words into your eyes like cereal into a bowl.

Reading is an IV with feeling, direct and sweet.

Reading is a mystery,

pick a metaphor, whatever works,

together we will stop eating books and spitting them out,

and free each other from our film camera lens

Of the mysterious

I suppose we speak mostly of what is more easily sensed,

and more readily explained.

But truth, meaning, love, quality, 

(really this whole mess of life when you get down to it)

find being on the mysterious side.

I wouldn't dare expose the secrets of our spinning sphere, and universe surrounding.

no, thats not my place.

I write more as a lone and stubborn defender of the mysterious;

I write to give her space, 

to see her beauty:

simply marvel and gaze.

may 9th

There are these moments when time doesn't exist:

I'm driving in my car with the windows down,

music loud, arms straight out beside me.

And I close my eyes....

well, almost.

Just enough so the world blurs, fades, and hardly exists.

I feel those moments in silent brightness,

in ringing ears, and clouds surrounding.