Saturday, October 9, 2010

cherbourg

I really want to move to Berlin, and live for a few months in Germany. I could drink gluvine and discover my heritage, and visit a lot of cities that end in 'bourg.' The winter will last forever there, but that's fine. If I could drink gluvine and discover my heritage I could allow the coldness.


I also like the idea of moving to the tropics. That term is pretty vague, "the tropics." I didn't even know exactly what places that included until I just googled it: "The tropics is a region of the Earth by the Equator. It is limited in latitude by the Tropic of Cancer in the northern hemisphere at approximately 23° 26′ 16″ ( or 23.4378° ) N and the Tropic of Capricorn in the southern hemisphere at 23° 26′ 16″ ( or 23.4378° ) S.

That also works for me. So, this time in a few months, I may be writing to you from a place ending in 'bourg' or from somewhere between 23° 26′ 16″ N & S.

Here is a poem I found during my afternoon at Borders, I hope you like it. It is by Octavio Paz. Have a good day beautiful, it's all happening.


As One Listens to the Rain

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it's raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the asphalt's shining, you cross the street,
it is the mist, wandering in the night,
it is the night, asleep in your bed,
it is the surge of waves in your breath,
your fingers of water dampen my forehead,
your fingers of flame burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open eyelids of time,
a spring of visions and resurrections,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page.


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