Woke up in the 3am darkness.
Stomach churn, talking to myself in a raspy, non-me, voice.
Ladysmith Black Mambazo were called upon, singing their Ladysmith morning hymn. Nomathemba. Elated, head upturned, neck stretched watching the clouds search-light across the sky through a crack in the curtains.
The self cradled to South Africa's beneficence.
In that moment, that very moment, a voiceless student wasn't going to inhale koru shaped carbon monoxide; not for herself, not for the the mother who IS.
In that moment the beauty of this morning lay in South Africa.
The allure that everything is a mind set. That I; a mind-setter.
I am not voiceless; instead lingering in a moment of comprehension.
'Still making the skywell' wafts in from my father's fingers in the Northern Hemisphere; a last minute protest to time passing. A denial of time itself. Still. Making. The. Skywell.
Aren't we all?
Consumer and providers. Words to compensate dying people and care givers. Dying people and care givers. Words to explain a degrading spirit, and the givers of care. The givers of care who selflessly give everything. The spirits who are everything but degraded.
The mindset counts.
The late night message so quickly returned. Too quickly? Too honest?
Impulsive. Merely am; barely am in this.
The crocheted beat. Separated by minims of drum beats. Semi-briefed by something-else; paused by the held breath. Connected by over-arching, floating voices. Then again. 10 hours of it, if you wish.
And I said I was insatiable...
Where did you leave your voice? Feebly: in bed, I think. A thick, cigarette laugh floats back. I should have known; but was relieved. I could eat my banana, coconut and oat pancakes in no hurry.
I could ogle, uncomfortably, at Katy Perry's Gothic dress, Selena Gomez's orangey lipstick, and Johnny Depp's chiseled face.
I could remember the furtive-dart-glancing-face of yesterday, and feel my heart beat more heavily.
I said that I had a slight embarrassing admission to make....
'A Sunday smile you wore it for a while.
A cemetery mile we paused and sang.*'
Stomach churn, talking to myself in a raspy, non-me, voice.
Ladysmith Black Mambazo were called upon, singing their Ladysmith morning hymn. Nomathemba. Elated, head upturned, neck stretched watching the clouds search-light across the sky through a crack in the curtains.
The self cradled to South Africa's beneficence.
In that moment, that very moment, a voiceless student wasn't going to inhale koru shaped carbon monoxide; not for herself, not for the the mother who IS.
In that moment the beauty of this morning lay in South Africa.
The allure that everything is a mind set. That I; a mind-setter.
I am not voiceless; instead lingering in a moment of comprehension.
'Still making the skywell' wafts in from my father's fingers in the Northern Hemisphere; a last minute protest to time passing. A denial of time itself. Still. Making. The. Skywell.
Aren't we all?
Consumer and providers. Words to compensate dying people and care givers. Dying people and care givers. Words to explain a degrading spirit, and the givers of care. The givers of care who selflessly give everything. The spirits who are everything but degraded.
The mindset counts.
The late night message so quickly returned. Too quickly? Too honest?
Impulsive. Merely am; barely am in this.
The crocheted beat. Separated by minims of drum beats. Semi-briefed by something-else; paused by the held breath. Connected by over-arching, floating voices. Then again. 10 hours of it, if you wish.
And I said I was insatiable...
Where did you leave your voice? Feebly: in bed, I think. A thick, cigarette laugh floats back. I should have known; but was relieved. I could eat my banana, coconut and oat pancakes in no hurry.
I could ogle, uncomfortably, at Katy Perry's Gothic dress, Selena Gomez's orangey lipstick, and Johnny Depp's chiseled face.
I could remember the furtive-dart-glancing-face of yesterday, and feel my heart beat more heavily.
I said that I had a slight embarrassing admission to make....
'A Sunday smile you wore it for a while.
A cemetery mile we paused and sang.*'
The waltz sings from side to side of my stomach, and I remember the anti-matter explosion sky yesterday morning. The clouds of green, blue, grey, yellow and pink framing a clear blue apotheosis. Zach Condon's voice echoing.
The moment when obvious is no longer oblivious. The divine moment when Loudness and Clarity choose to meet you. The moment realized. You succumbed to a utopian feeling; the epitome of life.
Something you thought you could control to not hurt others. And yourself.
The divine moment when the Gulag Orkester piano meets the chorus. The exaltation. The Amen
Its all in the mindset.
The skywell. The making. The stillness.
*A Sunday Smile by Beirut
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