I see myself smoking a pipe, grey haired and dignified, full of wisdom, wise thoughts, musing on how the world is going to pieces. I fear that one drag, and I'll die of cancer.
The winter grey descends, fine particles of dust produced by burning leaves ten, twenty miles away. We have the afterthoughts, the debris without the crackling fires.
You turn the lights off and set up two lamps, burning with low flames. The old medieval one, cloth and iron, produces more warmth than light, its narrow focus of light spilling reluctantly on to polished wood. The orange cone of light, the thin film of gentleness resting on the table surface until I unplug it and the wood fades to ordinary wood again. In the 6 o'clock morning drive, down the empty road, your hair tousled, your breath still heavy but calm, you see the red traffic light ahead, like a distinct note against the silence of the world.
I listen to some Biber and my heart is full of strength or confidence. There are no doubts, just the road and the simple movement of my hands and feet. You drive with both hands close to each other, at about '8.35', W-SW. In a more relaxed fashion you sometimes keep both south, as if you were steering a ship (or how you imagine you'd steer a ship). But in a moment I remember how everything can go pear shaped in a split second. Slow the car down, take the back routes, the grey unused roads that live a second life.
"Have you seen your face?" she asks.
"No, not truly."
He says, "I'm falling to pieces, going through hell. I know I can't marry her but I've developed feelings."
I listen to his scrambled message as hoards of restless school kids push and shove their way past me. There's a fountain with gurgling water and lights reflected up to the white ceiling as the clouds darken over. A few drops of rain...maybe twenty or twenty five. In a desert you are grateful for what you get. There is a kind of tremendous peace in this school with its open structure and it is an absolute inverse mirror of my friend's quavering, trembling voice. "My life is a mess and I don't know who can fix it."
There is no certainty in my voice and the best I can do is joke my way through the conversation. It is little comfort, a small ray of light-either to him or me.
There are no lines of poetry, no mountain-like experience that will show the way. His clothes are well-worn, slightly frayed at the edges, his eyes darting wildly like a trapped animal...
On my way home I shift gears mechanically: the sure world of Japaneses technology, of the stars above my head, of the white street lights just coming on. What if I forget how to drive?
The winter grey descends, fine particles of dust produced by burning leaves ten, twenty miles away. We have the afterthoughts, the debris without the crackling fires.
You turn the lights off and set up two lamps, burning with low flames. The old medieval one, cloth and iron, produces more warmth than light, its narrow focus of light spilling reluctantly on to polished wood. The orange cone of light, the thin film of gentleness resting on the table surface until I unplug it and the wood fades to ordinary wood again. In the 6 o'clock morning drive, down the empty road, your hair tousled, your breath still heavy but calm, you see the red traffic light ahead, like a distinct note against the silence of the world.
I listen to some Biber and my heart is full of strength or confidence. There are no doubts, just the road and the simple movement of my hands and feet. You drive with both hands close to each other, at about '8.35', W-SW. In a more relaxed fashion you sometimes keep both south, as if you were steering a ship (or how you imagine you'd steer a ship). But in a moment I remember how everything can go pear shaped in a split second. Slow the car down, take the back routes, the grey unused roads that live a second life.
"Have you seen your face?" she asks.
"No, not truly."
He says, "I'm falling to pieces, going through hell. I know I can't marry her but I've developed feelings."
I listen to his scrambled message as hoards of restless school kids push and shove their way past me. There's a fountain with gurgling water and lights reflected up to the white ceiling as the clouds darken over. A few drops of rain...maybe twenty or twenty five. In a desert you are grateful for what you get. There is a kind of tremendous peace in this school with its open structure and it is an absolute inverse mirror of my friend's quavering, trembling voice. "My life is a mess and I don't know who can fix it."
There is no certainty in my voice and the best I can do is joke my way through the conversation. It is little comfort, a small ray of light-either to him or me.
There are no lines of poetry, no mountain-like experience that will show the way. His clothes are well-worn, slightly frayed at the edges, his eyes darting wildly like a trapped animal...
On my way home I shift gears mechanically: the sure world of Japaneses technology, of the stars above my head, of the white street lights just coming on. What if I forget how to drive?
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