The Past Recedes
It wasn’t so much a journey home—new ghosts merging with old—but a completion of “goodbye.” So few points of reference along the trail, no one to ask: Hey, soul, how was it for you, waving your memories of darkness-now-passed before the faces you’d once longed to be invisible in the presence of? So much big love, though, also. The huge-hearted ones appear when you need them. They know to set you free, even if they don’t understand why you must ramble. Someday you won’t look back—that’s the aim of circling around now, one more time, convincing yourself its all over. Leaving what’s no longer home with a smile.
Mid-reading last night at KGB, NY—I notice a typo in the first chapter of Songs. A “was” where there was supposed to be a “wasn’t,” degrading the entire, important sentence. I made it through, anyhow, read right over it. My own error, symptomatic of a last-minute change. Far worse befalls the average person on a daily basis, but, still, the selfish mind goes around and around that word, the missing “n’t,” saying: how could you?
Anyway, the sun can be felt lately, the light that does not glare outward from a screen.