Sunday, August 9, 2009
broken trees marching to war
the way the heat sits, you would think the whole of the land was a furious kitchen. the sweat and the dust and the crumpled paper smiles. We fling ourselves through this world, bouncing off of each other, just to see where we will land. The music crept inside me last night. It jostled these rickety limbs like forests of muscle and bone in a thunderstorm of clanging guitars and harmony. The lesson here is simple: no matter how hard you dance or stomp or crash yourself against the ground, you will not move the planet. The trick is to do it anyway, as though you can.