April 13th, 2004
Am I on Pause with Robert Miles’ Children
Live at Sydney, awash in sun falling memories, Charlottesville, then Pittsburgh. My room, the smell of late seventies carpet, nylon pile, polyester comforters…dust…
Round and round the loop bends, up an octave and down again. Shake and burn the journey haunts me, my face resting deep in those old, trampled fibres.
Time is an infinite place
But it may pause
The tide still falls
My time is an infinite space
Am I on pause
Or will I fall
In love again
Things and possessions and boxes and photos and water rings and towering Cerwin Vegas on either side of the dark walnut shelf I’d known for twenty years.
Why am I fighting a collapsing paper bag with glassy insides, forced to remember every crack in the parking lot at Grady? It’s as if I’m slowly moving downhill, slipping, grasping at bits and pieces of lovers’ keepsakes, statuettes’ arms breaking and plastic bead gravel sliding out from under my feet.
Who is romantic, what is this ideal? How can I not be a lost and weary dreamer? I’m hungry for all of the crumbs and drops that fell between the seat cushions, but what is this constantly pushing forward in smaller circles and only eating bread?
