The End

Today is the end of November, my birthday month and the sun is strangely out. The days grow warmer the seasons more a blur with no note between rain and pouring. Here, on the coast, despite the wet of oceans my years peel away like dried-out flying skins, a swirl of nine years feels like last, I notice just how fast that short, black-hand on the clock spins through numbers.

Seems I do one or two things in a day against its twelve, I know it’s much more, but the fretting as gauged against a hissing pressure cooker of what everyone else is doing—a frantic jump about, I think it even more important to listen to Susan, my improv dance teacher, trained during the crucial artistic times, I imagine sixties through seventies in San Fran and N.Y. explains we must also pause.

The phrasing more impactful with the thought out, or attention to before-thought movement, the geometry of space and limbs and the weight of body on each action, but especially with those pauses, like the rests and pick-up’s in Bryan Ferry’s Mother of Pearl, or the way Richard Avedon uses the stop-blinding flash of white in his photography.

“Eyes out,” she directs.

To the world, and each moment, I devote myself to a beauty rather than a time-bomb, tick, tick, ticking in some backroom the ricocheting beat in empty caves grows ever louder! Instead, I stand against the cacophonous wind of hurry-up’s you are running out of time, see the scales on the jade leaves.

Yet, in the rest, human as ever, I fret over whether the standing so clever goes against my effortless sweep down the streams of being?

Photo Credit: Win Yong/unsplash