goldmund

what have I done









.

a year ago today

This is not a softer world.

...

me·tas·ta·size
intr.v. me·tas·ta·sized, me·tas·ta·siz·ing, me·tas·ta·siz·es

1. To be transmitted or transferred by metastasis.

2. To be changed or transformed, especially dangerously: "a need for love that would metastasize into an insatiable craving for attention" (Michiko Kakutani).

3. To spread, especially destructively: "[disinformation]... that even now continues to metastasize... to such a degree that myth threatens to overthrow history" (Gore Vidal).

Wait for Tuesday, okay?

i was wasted in the afternoon
waiting on a train
i woke up in pieces and elisabeth had disappeared again
well i wish you were inside of me
i hope that you're ok
i hope you're resting quietly
i just wanted to say

good, goodnight elisabeth,
goodnight elisabeth
goodnight elisabeth
goodnight

we couldn't all be cowboys
some of us are clowns
and some of us are dancers on the midway
we roam from town to town
i hope that everybody can find a little flame
me, i say my prayers
then i just light myself on fire
and i walk out on the wire once again
and i say

good, goodnight elisabeth,
goodnight elisabeth
goodnight elisabeth
goodnight

i will wait for you in Baton Rouge
i'll miss you down in New Orleans
i'll wait for you while she slips in something comfortable
and i'll miss you when i'm slipping in between
if you wrap yourself in daffodills
i will wrap myself in pain
and if you're the queen of California
baby i am the king of the rain
and i say

good, goodnight elisabeth,
goodnight elisabeth
goodnight elisabeth
goodnight
the moon's a satellite yeah
now wont you fall down
on me now
won't you fall down on me
come fall down
on me now
won't you fall down on me
'till i'm all alone
you ain't coming home
you just settle down down down into bones
i said i'm all alone
you ain't coming home
you just settle down down down into bones

3.
It’s true that at this time of year,
it’s already been said
that it’s all downhill from here.
One needn’t hang around long to discern
the manner in which a steady inattention
to the hum can melt
into a thrumming kind of somnolence,
but we’ve drafted entire evacuation plans
for lesser emergencies than these,
and the directions still fail us.
As if just some trees could ever be enough,
when we’re left here,
among our friends, already missing them,
hoping for what we know
won’t be around for long:
flowers, or even just the smell of them.

-- Dobby Gibson
from Open Season