||[May. 28th, 2017|08:49 pm]
There is jasmine scenting the warm air this evening— not very strongly, but sufficiently to coax the image of exotic gardens far more romantic than my scruffy California back yard. While I irrigate the flower-laden hedge, the sound of the water flowing enhances the image, and I can spend a few minutes in places I've never been, and places that have themselves never been and probably never will be. The most powerful nostalgia is that for the imagined, the vanquished desire lost to mere exigency and the mundane.|
The price for such indulgence on this occasion has been more mosquito bites. My itching and scratching tonight shall be a reminder of my folly, swallowed like its object by the dusk that took the moment's haunted reality and replaced it with another. The palimpsest of fantasy is covered with yet another layer of commonplace time. The birds have all bedded down and the crickets' chirps have replaced theirs. The sky is barely lit and rapidly vanishing, like everything I've left behind, everywhere I've been and everywhere I haven't.
by J. Neil Garcia
The hardest part about moving house
is not being able to move
It stakes its all
ramrod straight into living room floor,
nooses itself around banister,
and yields nothing to the breathless budge
away from bedroom post,
brickbrown wall, or marble nick
on sink and badly chipped tile
Afflicted with motion-sickness,
it will not travel well.
And so one moves with all one can:
personal computer, impersonal bed,
stereo and television set,
of books, poems, days,
and clothes one wears
upon one’s back.
And one can only look back
to memory’s dimly lit house
where childhood first grew eyes and ears
and never really learned
to use them properly.
Where the boy who lived
in a closet all his life,
knew all about how one should never
lose faith in things
one most loves,
wide-eyed and breathless
still packed his bags