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My own secret life 
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Mixing memory and desire
16:55 The sun goes down behind the mountain. The wind, rising, flicks the undersides of the just new leaves silver. Black earth, rotting snow: Manyvoiced snowmelt guttergleams downhill towards the city, where surly city workers in mechanic's indigo rode orange cranes to collect the Christmas lights from the trees and the lamp posts; where new banners flap for the year's first festival. On the way up, a pay phone: I dig a pen from my pocket, dig out my wallet: select a scrap of paper. A quarter, the slot, the receiver: none quite cold: musical tones, the Allo? Fingers near stiff, I scribble the pen to life, put the door code down on my scrap. Going up, I trudge through winter detritus: roadsalt, gravel, scrapings from the plows and the shovels. My shoelaces drag in the dust. Who will open the door? On the top of the mountain, the radio towers ladder their red lights up into the cloudcover. 19:02 Out from the flourescent flickering hallway into the soft night: Behind me, stacked yellow windows, newly pulled curtains in at least one. The wind's cool at the back of my neck. Downhilling still winter's black water freshens the city. Below me, the orange cagelighted pavilions of the farmer's market, now open again. Not just cellared root vegetables, but oranges, bananas, tiny new carrots, flowers even. Down look the stars. They don't know they are fish, dogs, hunters, virgins. They don't know release when our earth tilts on its axis. {NA} THE FOUR SEASONS: Spring, summmer, fall, winter. 4 Comments:Thanks/merci! By
Nice example of objective correlative. By Not that I'm looking for flattery, DTG, but what do you see collelating with what? By
*coughs politely* By All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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