trowel and tribulation
Half a bottle of Napa River Merlot (I usually prefer chiantis and cabs/ cab-syrahs) and some no.43 de cecco mini-pennes with some simple thickened pomodoro, a dash of Nina Simone, and some news feeds later, and I find myself waxing romantic about religiosity.
at least, as it relates to erecting things,
or, at least, building structures.
Beginning to understand Noah, then.
I'm quite fond of temples, ziggurats, cathedrals and catacombs, saracen molding and sarcophagi, pagodas and pyramids.
But I can just as easily see the appeal of vineyards.
Landscape, sculpture, architecture,
just as song, an oven of spiced sweets, a gilded raking broom of light from placental, nebulaic clouds,
can and ought to be the very essence of amorous, of atmospheric.
Nothing more sexy than sublime.
It is possible to build a better world. To live in a quiet, everyday sort of worship of the contours of the world walked and whimsied.
But one would have to pray to very fearless gods indeed.
Humanity is capable of building heaven.
We only have to stop trying so hard to have it replace earth.
Mortality is tragic, and tragedy makes the best poetry.
There is nothing that can be experienced that cannot be mythologized.
There is little in mythology that cannot, if willing, be experienced.
A wellspring of beauty is living anyway in the ineffable,
songing with scalp,
breathing with eyes,
loving with lungs.
grandfathering a vintage yet ripened.