Once in a while you stand there, that familiar beautiful place, alone or in the company of someone, and the weather does whatever it is the weather does, and you ohhh and ahhh on your own, in unison or canon. and then, out of nowhere it strikes you, with a force that steals the breath out of your mouth, that this! is not for your sake, that all of this magnificent scenery is an original performance that will never happen again, you are but comparable to the obligatory little boy at the circus with his eye glued to the tear in the canvas, the next show will never be!

and on the wings of this terrifying feeling you let yourself be lifted in soul and carried along - high high up in the air, where the winds rule, where the clouds are no longer clouds because they are all there is, where the sky is not blue, but darker than black, where what is most obvious to your eyes is not the dissimilarity of the weathers, but rather that the overlying sameness is a way of viewing changes. time. shifts in the universe.

how simple it is.

how simple it is, when you are there. you can easily remain hanging as a satellite, geosynchroneously rotating, to survey a massof land or body of water, and see a mass of changes in that blink of an eye it takes to tagg along, once round the block. and you can let go of your mooring and move freely or chaotically, lenghtwise on the parallels, diagonally at any degree of longitude, or in circles if you so wish, and for your selfsee that the universe exists, that it is no lie that shaving and notshaving matters, with precisely those intervals that make you feel good.

and then whooooosh you are back with the magnificent view, which has gone and turned a litle bit tame, but the birds sing louder now, and dinner or the warm hand is waiting, and very often Alexandria is fartheraway than it is right now. and everything smellsdifferent; familiar in some way. and the grass and breathing and shoes and leaves on the trees and beatings of swallows in the air - everything sounds as if after rain. but you are not wet.

a line. a line that is a river or a wall or a twisting runway towards the ever invisible part of the globe inside life; waiting and expecting, eating, sleeping, awakening, going for walks. loving, hoping, longing. and someone has framed the tear in the canvas with coal, but we depart not only blackened; the smile is burned in as well. because we feel that all and everything is a question of time, or rather: it is not. because we feel that we also approach.


© kenneth krabat 1999