The valley grows dark and the sky burns white and the smears of melted snow dance in subdued acid patterns that filtered our brains spinning the world kaleidoscopic on last weekend's island, glimpses.
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I'm at the verge of my dreams and soon this supercommute will shorten where I live on a mountain and drive up the other to hold the goodness teased from the earth in my hands daily. This is how I will get through March cursed month and city-exhausted.
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When domesticity tires you show up in my head and hate it, there is no hope and you're running still as mad to be there as I am dismayed that even in dreams I'm reaching and stonewalled. 'What good does it do that I'm here?' always mad that you are. 'None! I don't know,' I loss. Forgetting remains a mysterious and elusive process still proving my dreams are not wishes just loops of ghostly worlds. Treacherous sensation, this instinct for the ancient, my invisible double.
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In between when the signal cuts out I shoot twenty-second videos of the hoar trees and silverlakes obsessed with movement through a still and moving world and the indulgent loneliness it wrenches passing fast and stopping quick. Hundreds of pictures in a row, send send send that in our imaginations play on 40min loops on massive scale at the Whitney or MoMA the banal profound destinationless ephemeral an exquisite hell. This is where I wander to escape the bright hope of my future sparkling in fibonacci gleams which burst to be alive, chaos aligned at last.
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Ah! look the green valley, the delta the sun, the wideness, the breadth I do as all water and leap for the coast and the sweet oblivion of routine and grand plans.
