An unimaginable sweep of time, numberless generations spawning by infinitesimal steps complex living beauty out of inert matter, driven on by the blind furies of random mutation, natural selection and environmental change, with the tragedy of forms continually dying, and lately the wonder of minds emerging and with them morality, love, art, cities - and the novel bonus of this story happening to be demonstrably true.
Cellos hundred of cellos and I will glide with them in the moonlight, pirouetting in the black swan dance and kiss her head and nod to the willows and bow to the night and she will grace me they will grace us
they will grace us and the lake will grace us and smile and the moon will grace us and the mountains will grace us and the breeze will grace us and the sun will gently rise and its rays will stretch and spread and even the willows will lift their heads ever so slightly and the snow will grow whiter and the shadows will rise from the mountains and it will be warm
yes, it will be warm
...the shadows will stay but the moonlight will be warm (dance now dance now dance now) the moonlight will get warmer
hold me love me just dance and love me just love me
but fields of flowers are so lovely in the sun in the bright flooding sunlight warm and brilliant and the tall grasses flow and part and the colours burst and small drops of dew glisten and it is all russet and violet and amarant and green and white
...yes white and gold and blue and pink, soft pink primary hues and see the fireflies like flowers of the night o yes, yes flowers of the night soft little lights lovely little lights you can snuff with two fingers
o I'm so cold yes, yes my darling - so very cold love you your mouth, lips, are so warm d'amor si muore o see how the stars soften the sky yes, like jewels let's dance some more how beautiful as the moon follows us see - for us see, she sashays along to our melody shimmering into daylight the Queen of birds.
The door closed. A hundred times. Closed. Even as it swung open I heard it bang shut. Closed. Closed. Dozen of doors like many pictures jerkily animated by a thumb, tumbling mistily like shadows... and the click, click, the goddamn click click click of the latch and it banged shut. SHUT. Again and again and again it BANGED SHUT. A thousand miserable times. BANG BANG. BANG. Always banging shut. Never a knock. Think it. Force it. A knock. A knock. Please, please. O Jesus a knock. Make it a knock. Make it someone knocking. To come in. Why can't it be a knock. To come in
If I hold really still and forget myself, I feel the mist of my father's seed in my mother's pulse, can sense myself passing bodiless between them, my face erupting out of nothingness, my tiny mouth hungry for a voice, and I can see my first dream shiver through the veins in my almost transparent eyelids. The first dream - that's what I want to know. I want to remember the first dream I ever had. And then I'll use that knowledge to ransom my ghost from the lightning.
I look at the hill and the little slice of rising moon. I see the broad hump, the more tempered ridges of the hills in the background telling me the story of the slow and drowsy rousings of my beloved Earth, who stretches and yawns, making and unmaking blue plains in the dread flash of a hundred volcanoes.
My Earth just her yesterday just million years past, she turned in her sleep and traded one surface for another.
Where ammonoids once fed, diamonds. Where diamonds once grew, trees. The logic of moraine, of landslip, of avalanche.
Dislodge one pebble, by chance, it becomes restless, rolls down, in its descent leaves space, another pebble falls on top of it, and there's height. Surfaces. Surfaces upon surfaces.
The wisdom of the Earth, my Earth.
When life, surface upon surface, has become completely encrusted with experience, you know everything, the secret, the power, the glory, why you were born, why you are dying, and how it all could have been different. So you are wise. But the greatest wisdom, at that moment, is knowing that your wisdom is too late.
You understand everything when there is no longer anything to understand.
The wisdom of the Earth, the stirrings of my Mother.
He'll respond with the very same
ardour and force as you're able
Nothing fascinates me more
than the expanded reflection
of my spirit