magnetic
for a few fleeting minutes, i was before a bonfire once more, flushed cheeks turning against the fire as it threw angry embers into the icy night. even through the thick, heady smoke, the stars shone with a fervent energy. the sky was calm, without the usual froth that rests below the glittering blackness. i will always see my father inside every flame that burns in the night, particularly those heated blazes that dance under a dusky sky of purples and harvest red, colours that are heavy with memories of bright feather headresses and solemn footsteps over crackling wood and raw, dead leaves. suddenly, i am looking out over this peachy persimmon lake that churns lightly in the wind, the pinks and oranges chopping the oily silhouttes into rhythmic ghosts floating on the surface. the smell of hot ash and gasoline-drenched wood mingles with the scent of fresh water on a cold lake; my nostrils flare and i breathe in the scent of mountains. we are cradled in a deep valley cut ruggedly between shapely slopes- mothers cupping us in the space between the curves in her warm skin. i anthropomorphise the moon, the stars, the mountains, the lake, the dying trees. i can breathe easier; there is a certain crispness that lingers in the air. that smell that tastes like elevation and sailing across water with the early morning sun hanging by loose white strings in the sky. (from the paper journal, yesterday)
last night i drank red wine with housewives at a round glass table. they spoke of houses and architects and things that don't exist anymore in this place, like corner grocery stores without long fluorescent aisles and cavernous freezers. we drove through shadowy streets lit by yellowed streetlamps- lamps that should have been mothy and wet with humidity rather than achingly cold. the husbands were standing around a massive bonfire made of wood scraps, faces halved by the feverish glow on one side, and a quiet dimness on the other. hello jekyll and hyde. "hello ladies," they called as we descended the earthy slope toward the rising flame. these men in heavy boots and woolly tartan had the rugged appearance of lumberjacks, their faces weather-worn and pastoral. they were drinking beer from cans and pissing alone, into the darkness.
i watched an american football game for the first time today, curled up in a chair at the sokolowskis' house. one player, this pacific islander with long hair and a fluttery voice, prays before he enters the field. my hypersensitivity reigns, and i can feel the ache for glory in both sides. i can feel the ache under everything.