One Song (Daily Planet email #1043)
We walk in a desolate part of town through the worst of spring, against cold wet wind tearing up from the river valley, a flagpole frenzied atop the concrete factory. Meekly we mind threatening but empty viaducts and cross long and jagged bridges of glass and trash while seeing nothing, nothing open. Edging the sidewalks are the last sloughs of brown and grey snow, rimmed with sodden, blown refuse and caked remains. Then we see a light, the only sign of life from the only restaurant at all. We go inside its dim and spartan space and stomp our feet in the foyer, feeling slightly forsaken because it’s cold in there, too, and smells of disinfectant.
We ascend into ourselves with wonder and surprise. Guided, formed, and braided in wire and metal and skin, strands of eddying ember light guide us past the inevitable and into the possible. Diamond sparks cast teeming shadows at our weightless feet, hearts leaping within reach of dimensions of stars. In fanfare and filigree, we traverse boundless curiosities, honor and affection, all who came before and those we’ve not yet met. We have in the meantime lost all our ballast and forgotten everything that hurt.
We order what looks like they can’t get too wrong and wait there in the chilly silence. Ice settles in the soda machine while the mood in the kitchen is moody, muted voices and significant clatter portending nothing good. As one, we look outside and decide inside is still better. Our food arrives and is shiny with oil and dull with flavor. At least the water is watery. They say you can taste love in good food and on these plates we taste anxiety. We feed ourselves but it doesn’t feed us and when our crumpled napkins cover the half-finished meal it comes as a relief, a misbegotten episode soon to be gratefully forgotten.
Sun-daft and bell tower bright we call and course, asking nothing and receiving everything. A queen of silken air threads us along untethered design, each line anew, each flight in awe, mighty building clouds of astonishing weight and in this gilded entirety we sail. These moments are finite with infinite depth and we cede our sense to its majestic power, remembering at last we are not alone. Despite our heights we are heightened into somehow breathless, blinded, glorious peace.
Why do we have so many words for the low and the down, yet a full description of elation eludes us? A good guess is we are certainly too occupied experiencing the joy — but so why preserve the sorrow in words, why tamp it down and make it stay? But also our footsteps taking each day, these ladder rungs, how can they survive such angel trail ecstasy? Look outside then, from your mind past your eyes through the window. The rain is beautiful, no, or is it sad? Well, that depends on you. Hold fast the words and quicken the blood! A breeze always comes and the curtain always parts.
