Calls Stars By Name
Last night did not find me savoring the Leonid shower. I should have savored it. I should have gone without sleep to watch Tempel-Tuttle sprinkle fireballs 96 miles up as it continually crumbles in motion. I am a Leo, after all, and the Leonids come from the Sickle asterism of my constellation.
I live in the perfect place to see the stars. Here I can show you the Milky Way any night of the week. Do you, if you live in a city, even know what it looks like? Can you walk on neighboring glaciers? Can you go sit by a wild, raw river to collect your thoughts? Can you gather pinecones from your own backyard for your holiday centerpiece? I can drive two miles and walk five minutes and be sightless of all society but birds and breeze. Far enough that I can't even hear the trains, and I hear them every moment of the day. I work not thirty yards from the tracks. I live but blocks, and I hear them in my sleep. I love to hear them. They sound like possibility and adventure and dreams.
Still, as I got in my car tonight to leave a dwindling gathering, I said aloud to nobody but the cold air "damn you, Jack Frost." I let my little truck run a while before I asked him to carry me home, let the oil that is his blood warm from syrup to slick again to keep his metal parts safe from each other. I am tired and worried, and cautious of a new awareness. I am lonely, and more than a little apprehensive about the future. I have so much work to do to get where I want to be, and I'm running out of the time and energy required to get what I want. I'm running out of faith, in myself and in one dream, and I'm running out of patience for another. How do you tell somebody something you're sure they ought to already know?
I gaurantee this gloom is temporary, season-induced. I'll sleep soundly tonight, and in the morning I'll be ready to face Dad with that ghastly little contraption fastened to his face and the constant hiss and puff of oxygen. I'll be ready to face the holidays, winter, change, and the labor ahead. The things you work and wait for are the sweetest in life, that I already know. But why is it so hard to remember sometimes? Remind me often, please.
I live in the perfect place to see the stars. Here I can show you the Milky Way any night of the week. Do you, if you live in a city, even know what it looks like? Can you walk on neighboring glaciers? Can you go sit by a wild, raw river to collect your thoughts? Can you gather pinecones from your own backyard for your holiday centerpiece? I can drive two miles and walk five minutes and be sightless of all society but birds and breeze. Far enough that I can't even hear the trains, and I hear them every moment of the day. I work not thirty yards from the tracks. I live but blocks, and I hear them in my sleep. I love to hear them. They sound like possibility and adventure and dreams.
Still, as I got in my car tonight to leave a dwindling gathering, I said aloud to nobody but the cold air "damn you, Jack Frost." I let my little truck run a while before I asked him to carry me home, let the oil that is his blood warm from syrup to slick again to keep his metal parts safe from each other. I am tired and worried, and cautious of a new awareness. I am lonely, and more than a little apprehensive about the future. I have so much work to do to get where I want to be, and I'm running out of the time and energy required to get what I want. I'm running out of faith, in myself and in one dream, and I'm running out of patience for another. How do you tell somebody something you're sure they ought to already know?
I gaurantee this gloom is temporary, season-induced. I'll sleep soundly tonight, and in the morning I'll be ready to face Dad with that ghastly little contraption fastened to his face and the constant hiss and puff of oxygen. I'll be ready to face the holidays, winter, change, and the labor ahead. The things you work and wait for are the sweetest in life, that I already know. But why is it so hard to remember sometimes? Remind me often, please.
posted by A at
1:40 AM
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