Where none is
A sun as intrepid as an uninvited guest bearing blessings and good news burns through morning mist, casting sharpend shadows in the hollow of my hand.
An opaque curtain of blinding light refracting in all directions dissipates slowly revealing a morning of winter buring.
A few days of rain and shine, alternately teasing the wool on my skin into heaviness and a taught humid wrap as I walk miles of old streets in a city of puddles and edifice.
As a traveler fallen into the trap of sedentary dreams I rise to a knee and stare at the horizons that freedom offers.
The realization that freedom is not of movement as travel is not only of tickets and postcards, assails me in this place of wanting, this 19th century café, this boulevard filled with human indifference, this intersection of insistence, pace of culture and commerce and combustion engines honking horns and failing in their struggles for happiness.
Trees spread fingerless branches in skeletal still life towards black and white skies, staining stone building fronts with motionless dance and holding the eye as the finest sketches in a museum.
I feel the magic of an unreasonable belief slipping into my heart, of true love, of poetry and passionate desire, of open ends and endless roads and seasons falling like ripe fruit or fuchsia leaves or heat waves or snow flakes in frosty nights.
I hear the desperate cry of the loon calling across a lake in my imagination, telling stories of his escape from the zoo and his hopeless search for a mate as the last of his species, his rootless awkwardness in beautiful tragedy.
I see the awkward running legs of a toddler seeing the world as if mystery where the common lot and breathless laughter banal currency and overwhelming chagrin daily fare and all of it in the embrace of a moment, moving between fathers legs, smothered at mothers breast.
And yet so soon the loon takes flight to find the imagination of another's night, the child awakend by the harsh words spoken of a parent chiding into precautions and precocious adulthood and the unburied death of magic.
A lifetime of adult days spent unlearning, the strokes of frustration, the cold words of reason, the hard steel of pretentious constructions stealing into the sky with the dream of escape from the weight of impermanence.
A lifetime of finding smiles in hidden corners, of eyes seduction and skin to be touched in darkness, to unfold its promise and find a child riding on the spine of soft dunes into moonlight, pleasures too numerous to name.
What does the newborn see, as the womb recedes and he is introduced to unknowns, the cold on his skin, pale lights in his eyes, the warmth of a woman now external, folding and piling at once purity and expectation.
The eyes of a father settling upon him, sewing complex emotions into the folds of his chubby flesh, a strong mans lids perhaps brimming with the uncontrolled fear, love, joy, relief, laughter, disgust, welcome, tenderness, loss of self... only so many words in puddles gaining strength into the lakes of lifetime.
The city returns flooding my horizons, vertical, loud, impressive, oppressive, as violent as a flower whose color shocks the monotony of monochrome.
Love has returned to my heart, strange that, and needs no justification, no other for existance.
It has come unexpectedly, as it tends to and fills me, just a drop, enough to light a capital for lifetimes, enough to find hope in the terrified eyes of hungry children.
It is as if a wise sorceress had woven it into my fabric as vital as the flesh that holds my soul within, to sting when it hurts as a reminder of others and the existences they lead like shepherds in the shadow of the valley of death.
Giving hope where none is, giving place where none is, finding joy where none is, or laughter where none is.
As ancient as sand the stone ground into dust having swum through the darkness of space to give life to the infinitively small and radiate out into elephants and giant lizards and naked monkeys crying over broken bits of glass.
What a sublime poem it is, the pain and delicious pleasure of it all, the dew and caress, the eyes like strange planets telling tales of desire and inviting new life to enter warm spaces and share breathless moments and more and again.
It could be petty and vulgar where it not for magic, dirty and hopeless were it not for the finite joy of incertitude as the risk of love is thrown like an anchor into depth less wake in the dark water of dreams.
I love again and it is a one and it is all. It is like meaning to the abstract symbol that high on a broken stool I criticized as trivial, rival and false, oh the irony of the mirrors stare, the chair broken in pieces around me in my fall and sitting stupefied I again rise to look the demon of lovelessness in the eyes; goodbye
He seems as though weakness where I saw reason, treason where I saw solace, isolation when I sought refuge; goodbye.
The city again, its crossroads, the other in his quest crossing my path, smiles or not.
I am indifferent.
My attraction is cast wide like a net and I release it letting free its catch and plunder; my door is open.
Josh David Imeson
Paris, January 2010