Selah upon return to NYC after two weeks in France and 3 short sensuous days in Spain o glorious parentheses of days within too much halting along in urbanity...so many aftertastes meet the shock of the City. I am overdone happily run over with the whole of it to be parsed and partaken of in memory and find myself as I did yesterday in airport after airport (4 of them) trying to remain in France (Spain too) in the rain and river and tributary freshets saturated fields and vineyards (and roads) walking slowly with the swollen L'adoir (river) as soundtrack, the doves there too whose calls are unlike any I've heard on my sentinel East Village fire escape, the mud so cloying on my cheap boots trying to keep me there in most humble terroir so generous still for centuries and giving still, even an over abundance of water which I braved and prayed to with my improvised water laden walking stick, so relieved and grateful to be free of NYC money terrors and mindless manic pursuits of which I have no more use at all fall away fall away fall away all-o-that for me returning ever so slowly to pulse, and breath, and weighted meaningful steps and seeing (or trying to) the beauty in the quotidien offering in front of my nose and the rest of aging me.
I did afterall sleep and wake to a monastery and church only a minute from my bedroom window, to that dove song choir of spatial shakuhachi tones syncopated otherly, and the chicken sqawks busy with dawn annunciations of the laying of THE acclaimed one and only egg of eggs (until the next one), the neighbor woman just yards away at other window singing softly as she hung her laundry out her window from a clever thin stringed, gray fade frayed contraption unknowingly offering me shades of veiled body parts laced or not, practically stitched and padded/weighted for certain parts, each is an interior castle to the one more than strongly hinted by the nearby monastery and church for centuries unused and unused still, appealing still to "archaic authority" (Julie Kristeva) but with enough dawn dove song and neighbor's breath paced melodies tenderly sung to cloth enclosures and supports, and so I am pleased to find then unexpected archaic (shades of the eternal) authority (not my overriding rote unconscious kind a bob bob bobbing along) sweet, enstoned (is that a word, just wrote 'sword') giving insistent weight to sublimity (how we do sublimate such indeed) to impress such upon me the coagulate dirt pecker nozzling at whatever's beneath the feet and beak...oy. And halleluh. To such and every I say, insist,
More weight. More weight.