whale hearts

The sun drops and night begins its seduction in earnest. The streets of the mission are littered with people, so many of them carrying plastic bags, shuffling from this place to that; their footfalls, an everpresent reminder of gravity. Odd how drastically different people of the same species can move. I wonder if it is the same with other animals, or if we are bound in this way by our humanness? I think it must be the humanness, for it has been proven to me time and time again, the great effects of the heart on the way our bodies move across the earth.

The young ones, mostly my own age I suppose, are dressed to kill with big shoes and tight pants and wallets with chains and frilly things on their arms. Skirts. Behind them, the workers walking home with tired eyes. big hands. White paint on blue pants.

The shade of the sky drifts into darker places and the cars honk at the busses full of people. The bright, bright busses. I used to ride the train back and forth from davis to mountain view quite often, and I always wished that the trains had no light at night, so that we could see the world pass by with more clarity. What is our obsession with all of these fucking lights? these lights so painfully loud. are we all just afraid of the dark? Perhaps so many peoples’ lives are just too dim without them. I secretly pine for a world lit only by candles, their soft glow guiding our way gently like whale sounds.

Whale hearts.

A cinema of enormously slow movement.

my bed calls to me. begs even. i will lie down and clutch the pillow. stick my feet out. smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. the bed swallows me.

Posted by jeff pitcher at April 1, 2004 11:00 PM

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