the artistthe sky, refusing to flatter the city,is morose gray-white, alooffrom the spires and roof-topsI reach out and touch as they pass.december thirtieth and only a hintof snow in kentucky. I fall in lovewith a bridge that takes us acrossthe ohio river and my idle thoughts.the tempo of cornfields and old barnsis like wrinkled hands and chessis like the conversations I havewith my cousins in the hotel room.are we half-way there yet? are wethe frost on the window, whereyou drew a picture with the toeof your boot? (I won't tell anyone).I see a billboard about legacy.later, in my pajamas, in the bedroomwith the old radios, I am withmy grandfather.
on being sickIt was at a time when I was sick. I had the garden variety common cold, obtuse and yet, ceaselessly tiring, but I also had music. It was a song I had just discovered, and lying there on my carpet, staring at the stars on my ceiling, I let my headphones cradle my ears and let the music pierce my cold. I floated with it, leaving the symptoms behind. It was ethereal and surreal, yet it grounded me, and meant so much.We drive south through Indiana, and into Kentucky, and the music comes with me. Together we move through forests and across fields. I think about water and the sky, about opposites, and concrete and abstract things. A pair of birds dance in the air and land, side by side, on a wire.Another time when I was sick I remember making spaghetti. It was probably January. Maybe February. It was winter, not the part of impatient winter, when spring is in the corner of your eye whenever you look out the window (but you can't focus on it), but not the heart of it either. It was the chee
Born in a StableIt is cold, and it is dark behind the inn, except for the glow from the windows that we are leaving, trudging back into the frigid darkness. Mary breathes heavily, the wind whisking it away from her before she has scarcely parted her lips. Every step the mule takes is heavy. The innkeeper leads us, holding his torch high, but it is a speck against the immense black sky. How small the light is against the enormity of the night. How small a baby is. But He is the son of the Most High, the Most Glorious... the Most Triumphant. Here? In the darkness? I can barely think of it.I reach for Mary's hand in the dark. The innkeeper has stopped, he stands and holds the door to the stable with one hand, his torch with the other. Mary is squeezing my hand so tight, and we exchange a glance in the shadows before entering the stable. Inside it smells of fresh hay and it
to slow down the time.it is akin to frost. she is the windowpane,her skin is the frozen glass. she looksout through a shroud. what she feels insideis not a question, is not so many possibilities.it is straightforeward, and that is worse.it is pale light in an empty kitchen.blue shadows that stretch into deep grays.it is like a vase dropping through the air.the first moments as it hits the ground;half-whole and half-broken. that, she thinks,is what she feels. half-whole, and half-broken.