There is a large electrical line, outside my apt windows, topped with two inches of ice and snow, that has been bobbing up and down since at least five am. It bounces in a perfect rhythm at a moderate tempo, unceasingly.
It is mesmerizing in it’s metronomic regularity.
Seems like it should lose it’s inertial force, delivered by some resting bird, or falling snow and ice blob, but no. It just goes on perpetually. So much so that I wonder if the harmonics of the vibration are altering the line quality? Snow-induced attenuation?
It’s not unimaginable that the increased power demand, coupled with a rare physical rigidity in the line, and astronomically improbable physical conditions are allowing the pulsations of current to sustain this motion. As if the cable vibration is the expression of a hot electrical line shivering in the cold air.
It’s the only variable I can think of in this system that is likely to be operating with this level of regularity. A regularity that is so perfect that it hints at artificiality.
I can’t leave out the idea that there could be a machine at one or both ends of the line, that are powered to shake the line.
what’s wrong with falling in love, over and over again. Feeling finally that someone may love you. Maybe it’s foolish, and life doesn’t permit it. Maybe when the world speaks, it says, timing, or permission. But if I smell your perfume, and I look at you, and I see that your eyes are brimming with water because you’ve heard me, and then, for once I believe someone else, then I hold that close. I hold it close, I listen to it over and over, and maybe it’ll never happen. Maybe not, but I can thank you for making me feel in love, and loved, and like the door is still open.
There’s a city, and a village, a music, and a home, and a book, and love, across a great divide, but there is a bridge called faith, and called accident, that goes to the other side. On the other side we can hold hands in celebration, without shame, and we can drown in the fullness of those swells. The ocean maybe means forever, and it’s dark and tempestuous and huge. In the swells of the ocean everyone is drown, everyone goes under and is lost and taken away. So that fullness swells up from the inside and is; you know what it is.
We are before that ocean and before that bridge. We are in our bodies, we are in our words, and all of them work together for us, because it is possible, because we long for love, to be held up, to be held down, to be spoken to softly and sternly when the time is appropriate.
Because we see too deeply, we see into hearts, and hear the voices in chorus from the other side. We know that across that bridge is the happiness, is the relation, and that same feeling we hold privately in our hearts.
When I tug at you, when my hand drifts across your back, and your hand and your face, I am only trying to help you hear the voice across that bridge.
Truth is an artefact of the past. By this I mean, the truth of experience apexs somewhere near the most relevant point of the “recent past.” The present has turbulence and lacks analysis, the future is necessarily conjecture.
It’s too big a topic to go on about now, but it just occurs to me that I don’t often feel confident enough to say what something is without having evidence, a record from the past, and that most people, including myself aren’t terribly good at on-the-spot analysis. The greater truthes of it aren’t really available until some of the HEAT of relevance disappears.
You could say, “The world is thus….,” and someone could rightfully counter, “Well it was then…”
Say what?
Where am I?
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