Seeing gods

Seeing stars and planets with your naked eye—not through the lens of a telescope or as pixels on a screen, nor as a photograph, picture, or some artist’s rendition—just from your flailing and alive flesh eyes—is the closest you’ll come to looking at a god.

2016, Amanda Mocci. Unsplash title Starry night.

Abandoned neural pathway

I found myself down a road I abandoned a long time ago.
I was hard enough for a little bit of ugliness
and a place where that feeling of impending doom made sense
or at least, felt less strange.

I went down that road again looking for the broken old house
You know, the kind that makes you think that after all,
there is room for the dead in this living world
—terrifying and beautiful, like the sea.

There I spoke to the dead old woman
Who refuses to think that she died and was supposed to go to heaven
and she laughs at me saying that I’m more dead than her.

“Don’t you know that it’s all a killing ground, everywhere?
What’s alive is what you put life into, 
and you’re here on a weekday, even before noon. So tell me who’s dead, child? Me, or you?”

2017, Maison abandonnée dans le lieu-dit La Pitonnière, sur la commune Le Teilleul, Normandie, France. 0x010C

Ruined words

‘I love you’: Can you see these words without the trembling awkwardness of your youth, and the tint of all your heartbreaks? Without the glossy plastic layers from the hundred-odd rom coms and TV you’ve watched. Consider those words without the dust you’ve let accumulate, each time that you said it as if it was the most everyday thing to say to someone as they walk out the door. Just look at those words without those layers. Look at them without remembering. How strange, wet with emotion, and trusting they are. Voids of black, deep green and pulsing reds; all just ready to coexist, for the sheer possibility of bathing in another’s light.

Pick the words out of the unknowing darkness, with care and gentleness that you would gather a broken bird with. Pick them because, although they’ve fallen, they are still beautiful; even as they’re browning, drying up of life-water, they echo more than the memory of some once-upon beauty. Because they echo the truth of beauty. That, what once was is part of the forever. 

1905, Two bird-lovers in Mexico. Beebe, William, London, A. Constable & company, ltd. Boston and New York, Houghton, Mifflin and company, via American Museum of Natural History Library