Below the stars, the city lay frozen. People moved about briskly, cars waiting at traffic lights emitted a breathy exhaust like winter farm cows; ice scabs crusted the sidewalk in unexpected places. The domed sky absorbed all human wishes while threatening snow. It was a city suspended, stretching outward into nothing and everything, as if waiting for something to claim it. Ties to harmony unraveled, reformed. Secret music rose, carried by the wind across the river, to fall like invisible snowflakes or maybe prayer. It was a night you could hear people dreaming. People casting off chains, submitting resumes to the universe, awakening the next morning remembering nothing. Blue steel midnight. Ancient Chinese clocks ticking across forever. Zodiacal societies casting predictions no one ever checks a year later to see if they were right, the spiral path of the cosmos sweeping everything along, the knowledge of the entire forest in a single pine cone. More wishes, flung out like seeds, stardust, the ear, resembling an upside down, tucked in human embryo, listens to acupuncture needles play old stereo records, backwards. Twelve drunken tourists pass by in a slur. Aristotle said beauty is order, symmetry, and precision. Confucius said everything has its beauty but not everyone sees it. This night has a beauty that hardly anyone will see as well as order, symmetry, precision. The frigid air is as threatening and precise as a cold steel bullet. As if it were a pistol wanting to say, “Give me your wallet, chump.” Everything surrenders to it. Everyone measures it. Everyone is left wanting. Cold blue angels hover protectively over trashcans and alleys. Stutterers speak freely, in labyrinths of riddles. Order is on holiday in Goa, India, and for the moment, anything goes. Everyone wants understanding. Everyone wants time and a half. Everyone wants to blame it on someone else. Everyone wants to know what happens next. Everyone would like you to believe they’ve read War and Peace. Everyone surrenders to something. Not everyone admits to it. The wind blows down the cold pavement streets in a foreign language. Mount Everest lecturing. Gobi desert dry—heaves. When was the last time you thought you knew where you were going? When was the last time you felt truly relaxed? When was the last time you had faith in something? The old woman sells baked sweet potatoes on the corner. She overcharges. Nobody minds. She is still there at midnight. She doesn’t appear to question. Is that wisdom or stoicism? The country rises up westward from the ocean to the Tibetan Plateau. No one seems mindful of the terrible and wonderful geography. The pattern of the winds is perfect. The drainage of the rivers carries you along in some crazy booguloo of transcontinental sea yearning. The worn hills are ancient. The coal-heated cities are Dickensian. Everything is old and new at the same time. The new year beckons. The new year pleads. The new year wants recognition. And in the cold starlight, the new year doesn’t seem to care. Or does it? You will decide. Create the best year ever. “Truth is so excellent, that if it praises but small things they become noble.” – Leonardo da Vinci
1 Comment
Mary
1/17/2013 12:09:27 am
Meditation, conscious choices and love…. And so instead of creating New Year's resolutions this year, I've decided to embrace these guiding principles as my intention for 2013. Whatever you resolve or intend for 2013, may it bring you fulfillment, happiness, good health and much love.
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