It’s all one long run-on like a love affair gone bad (sitting in a coffee shop in Zurich)

We were on a mountaintop looking out over a valley of Autumn colors,
all orange and ocher and maudlin maroons climbing and falling and
undulating in the breezy atmosphere of 7,000 feet and your mittens
in my mittens and the beauty so real and intense that it makes you morose
to contemplate ever going back to the city; although, that’s where
everything waits: your job, your family, your friends, but you wonder
if maybe there isn’t another you that stays on the mountaintop and
lets the moon wax and wane like an anorexic chalk outline while
deer and elk make tracks in the leaves and you learn the inside language
of the universe talking in seasons and maybe you’ll turn into a stone
and it was always what you were meant to be, through the years
falling in and out of love, and going job to job, and changing the oil
in your car and wrapping Christmas presents and cheering for your
sports heroes and laughing at jokes on bad sitcoms and sending texts
and buying drinks and planning vacations and crying when George Bailey
picks up Zuzu and carries her on his back as Doris Day ushers in the town
and you know that this life is more than being a stone, but also more than
paying online bills and ordering Amazon Prime and you were almost 40 years old when you learned that the North Star is part of the Big Dipper — that and the Little Dipper are the only constellations you know so how do you speak the language of heaven when you can’t even identify it’s pebbled path — like neurons, we’re firing in patterns of grandiose propaganda, articulate blathering that make me sound poetic, but dissected it’s a bowl of Cap’n Crunch and Fruit Punch, take off the couch cushions and you’ll find the detritus of these youthful days, and it’s thinking about the past on that mountaintop, with the Earth changing into winter robes, that makes you sort of sullen and sort of sad and you feel it down to your wool socks and would prefer to be in a Zurich coffee shop writing on a pad, but as you look at her and she looks back at you with those melancholy eyes you could fit spaceships in,  you wish you could describe just what the moment and the mountaintop does to you — these feelings, frozen in time, dripping from the sky, landing on the tip of your eyelash — the ache and emptiness of it all, but unfortunately you’re the quiet type, so you merely sigh and scratch your nose and point out a cloud that looks like rain.

mountain top

(((inspired by this photo… I don’t know the original source… but it came from a Tumblr page… I don’t mean to steal it, just want to show where this stream of conscious rambling prose started)))


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