Last night, it was twilight, and it had been a long day, and I got up, and I moved towards the window, and I pulled up the blinds, and I pushed back the curtain, and I tied the rope of it around a thumbtack in the wall. The sky outside was an exploding riot of after sunset colors--the fractured clouds all fluorescent pinks, deep persimmons, reflected golds. In the air outside this second floor, there were big, fat dragonflies swooping and whirring in the falling darkness. There wasn't any sound but the night. I thought, I should write about this, but I didn't.
Lately, I've been going through boxes of things because of something I have to do. Afterwards, I wrote an email to someone that read, in part, "Looking through these papers is like being forced to look at a map of where I went wrong." Later, he wrote back, in part, "...the bottom line is, you were in the grips of both god and the devil and the results of that STRUGGLE are in those boxes..." And, he was right.
This week, I started doing yoga every morning and then shoving myself out the door to take a walk, to move, to get out of here. I walk through a park. I walk by a body of water. I walk through the neighborhood. The other day, I was walking by a very tall tree. I thought about all the hurricanes and the years and the forevers it has withstood. Its great arcing branches. Its incomprehensible architecture. I thought: Nature is what art aspires to be.
