A new pop sensation, all over tha nation, hey! hey!
Whoever said air was not colored was a liar and a fool.
Driving is like smoking a cigarette. There's a delicate balance between filtered and actual air, breaths are calculated and relaxed, and your hands are busy with the wheel. I took a drive last night, to think about things. I never do think about anything particular, but I guess no one ever sets out to when they decide to go some place and think. Or maybe people do. And maybe I am wrong.
Lyon's park is at the base of a hill. I learned, recently, that they close the gate after a certain number of hours at night. That must mean there have been naughty or unacceptable things taking place in that park. I think that's funny, because your kids might play baseball there.
Anyway, Lyon's park is on the base of a hill. I drove up that hill. I had Jackpot in. There is a song about love and how beautiful it is on the Jackpot CD Weightless. I was listening to that song. And I got the top of the hill.
There are times when time does not exist, when everything is a moment and that moment is everything. And it stops. And you stop. And everything stops. And you know, you just know, that at that exact moment, at that exact time, everybody is feeling the same way you are, and everybody is knowing that everything is okay, and they're believing it.
At the top of the hill, I had this experience. And then I looked, but it was like slow motion. The hills were paper cut-outs on the horizon, shrouded in mist and watercoloured with purples and deep teals and blues and forrest greens. And then the air.
The air was solid. I have no way of describing it but that. The sun hit the car, my face, the cut crystal on my mirror, and the air all at once, and it became solid. And it's color was carmine, and I put my hand out my window so that I might touch it, and I did. It eveloped my fingertips, then my whole hand, and then my wrist, up to my elbow, until it finally consumed me. And it felt warm.
It felt like that moment Christmas Eve when all you're family's over, and you put out cookies for Santa even though you're 16. It felt like that moment on Thanksgiving when the first peice of food hits your plate, and that moment when the last bit of it is gone. It felt like the moment the ball drops on New Years, or your nephew finds the first egg of Easter, or, better yet, you find the first egg, even though you're 16. It felt like that moment your parents let you drink wine for the first time, or the first bruising pinch on your arm when you've forgotten to wear green and forgotten it's March, even though you and the person who pinched you are 16. It felt like that first real kiss when you forget to close your eyes all the way, or the first time you hold hands with someone and know it means something because both your palms are sweating and it's not gross ((or it is, but just a little)). It felt like that time when you're just falling asleep, or the akward moment in your first day of class when you're not sure you've picked the right seat. It felt like the first time you set eyes on your birthday presents, and the curiousity with which you shake the box, and the eagerness you feel when you beg your mom to let you open "just one a little early!", even though you're turning 17. It felt like a hug. It felt like a big hug.
It smelled like a new book, it smelled like a baking cake, an apple pie, your grandmother's purfume, you'r grandpas cigarres, your dad's cologne when he comes home from a business trip, a new stuffed animal ((even though you're 17)) or freshly laundered shirts. And it smelled like flowers in the spring. And it smelled like the first rain storm on the pines. And it smelled like camping and campfires and it smelled like the meals we have on my grandmother's Christmas eve parties, or the hardboiled eggs on Greek Easter. And it blinded me with it's red, it's bright red that didn't hurt to look into, that didn't burn to touch, that became me.
And I was so happy to be a live.
I AM SO HAPPY TO BE ALIVE.
This life is too beautiful to waste. I hope everyone knows this. If you're looking for the great, the grand, the amazing things, the huge things, the commercial or movie things that are so big you can't miss them, then you're looking for the wrong beauty. The beauty in this life is the everyday struggles of man, the bitter dissapointment and his ability to carry on. The beauty is the small moments that gather up to make that time between the big events, that could pass you by, for all they are is a single moment, if you do not look for them, or let them look for you, or open to them so that they can come in. Life is beautiful everyday. You don't have to be an artist or a poet to know it.
I love life.
I love living.
I hope you love living too.
I hope you love everyone.
I hope you love even those you hate.
I hope even those you hate love you.
I hope, seceretly, we all love eachother.
Because I love all of you.
Driving is like smoking a cigarette. There's a delicate balance between filtered and actual air, breaths are calculated and relaxed, and your hands are busy with the wheel. I took a drive last night, to think about things. I never do think about anything particular, but I guess no one ever sets out to when they decide to go some place and think. Or maybe people do. And maybe I am wrong.
Lyon's park is at the base of a hill. I learned, recently, that they close the gate after a certain number of hours at night. That must mean there have been naughty or unacceptable things taking place in that park. I think that's funny, because your kids might play baseball there.
Anyway, Lyon's park is on the base of a hill. I drove up that hill. I had Jackpot in. There is a song about love and how beautiful it is on the Jackpot CD Weightless. I was listening to that song. And I got the top of the hill.
There are times when time does not exist, when everything is a moment and that moment is everything. And it stops. And you stop. And everything stops. And you know, you just know, that at that exact moment, at that exact time, everybody is feeling the same way you are, and everybody is knowing that everything is okay, and they're believing it.
At the top of the hill, I had this experience. And then I looked, but it was like slow motion. The hills were paper cut-outs on the horizon, shrouded in mist and watercoloured with purples and deep teals and blues and forrest greens. And then the air.
The air was solid. I have no way of describing it but that. The sun hit the car, my face, the cut crystal on my mirror, and the air all at once, and it became solid. And it's color was carmine, and I put my hand out my window so that I might touch it, and I did. It eveloped my fingertips, then my whole hand, and then my wrist, up to my elbow, until it finally consumed me. And it felt warm.
It felt like that moment Christmas Eve when all you're family's over, and you put out cookies for Santa even though you're 16. It felt like that moment on Thanksgiving when the first peice of food hits your plate, and that moment when the last bit of it is gone. It felt like the moment the ball drops on New Years, or your nephew finds the first egg of Easter, or, better yet, you find the first egg, even though you're 16. It felt like that moment your parents let you drink wine for the first time, or the first bruising pinch on your arm when you've forgotten to wear green and forgotten it's March, even though you and the person who pinched you are 16. It felt like that first real kiss when you forget to close your eyes all the way, or the first time you hold hands with someone and know it means something because both your palms are sweating and it's not gross ((or it is, but just a little)). It felt like that time when you're just falling asleep, or the akward moment in your first day of class when you're not sure you've picked the right seat. It felt like the first time you set eyes on your birthday presents, and the curiousity with which you shake the box, and the eagerness you feel when you beg your mom to let you open "just one a little early!", even though you're turning 17. It felt like a hug. It felt like a big hug.
It smelled like a new book, it smelled like a baking cake, an apple pie, your grandmother's purfume, you'r grandpas cigarres, your dad's cologne when he comes home from a business trip, a new stuffed animal ((even though you're 17)) or freshly laundered shirts. And it smelled like flowers in the spring. And it smelled like the first rain storm on the pines. And it smelled like camping and campfires and it smelled like the meals we have on my grandmother's Christmas eve parties, or the hardboiled eggs on Greek Easter. And it blinded me with it's red, it's bright red that didn't hurt to look into, that didn't burn to touch, that became me.
And I was so happy to be a live.
I AM SO HAPPY TO BE ALIVE.
This life is too beautiful to waste. I hope everyone knows this. If you're looking for the great, the grand, the amazing things, the huge things, the commercial or movie things that are so big you can't miss them, then you're looking for the wrong beauty. The beauty in this life is the everyday struggles of man, the bitter dissapointment and his ability to carry on. The beauty is the small moments that gather up to make that time between the big events, that could pass you by, for all they are is a single moment, if you do not look for them, or let them look for you, or open to them so that they can come in. Life is beautiful everyday. You don't have to be an artist or a poet to know it.
I love life.
I love living.
I hope you love living too.
I hope you love everyone.
I hope you love even those you hate.
I hope even those you hate love you.
I hope, seceretly, we all love eachother.
Because I love all of you.