"like a city where many beings, alone and distant from me, move and murmur with a destiny heaven no longer knows," - The City by Jaime Sáenz. We bike as the sun sets, the road seems long, longer than usual, flying pass the trees, in an hour the pollen moves in waves as we return for home, it looks like the sea to us, the ocean millions of years ago once lived here and it returns now and then. A poet once called The City a forest of tents. A city can only ever truly feel like a city at that crepuscular moment and when the moon hangs in that dark scarlet sky. That is to say it requires the lights to be on to be a city. Thousands of places with lights, all these buildings have ancestors in the humble tent which the nomadic bands had setup each night. Our world has forced a grand many to return to that life against their will by our number of crimes of letting the work/war machine run wild. This time these bands are nomadic not in search of better lands but rather to avoid the searing eye of the army-state, America ceases to have any better lands now anyway. As soon as fine leather shoes set foot in a town with cheap rent it is over. Those leather shoes wish Mu would appear not to see what new urban worlds it would hold but simply to have another empty luxury condo. I pass by these crepuscular creatures, mourners leaving a cemetery at dusk. We watched a Shabbat synagogue service today, in the end they uttered the mourner's Kaddish for those who had recently departed for the unknown elsewhere of our universe, if there is an elsewhere. If the Greek legends really were true we can only believe that now there is a bus idling near the Styx highway, boat long gone. The encounter with the naval crossing like that now lives on in a few places, canal cities, forests of boats.
Crepuscular Creatures.
Crepuscular Creatures.
Crepuscular Creatures.
"like a city where many beings, alone and distant from me, move and murmur with a destiny heaven no longer knows," - The City by Jaime Sáenz. We bike as the sun sets, the road seems long, longer than usual, flying pass the trees, in an hour the pollen moves in waves as we return for home, it looks like the sea to us, the ocean millions of years ago once lived here and it returns now and then. A poet once called The City a forest of tents. A city can only ever truly feel like a city at that crepuscular moment and when the moon hangs in that dark scarlet sky. That is to say it requires the lights to be on to be a city. Thousands of places with lights, all these buildings have ancestors in the humble tent which the nomadic bands had setup each night. Our world has forced a grand many to return to that life against their will by our number of crimes of letting the work/war machine run wild. This time these bands are nomadic not in search of better lands but rather to avoid the searing eye of the army-state, America ceases to have any better lands now anyway. As soon as fine leather shoes set foot in a town with cheap rent it is over. Those leather shoes wish Mu would appear not to see what new urban worlds it would hold but simply to have another empty luxury condo. I pass by these crepuscular creatures, mourners leaving a cemetery at dusk. We watched a Shabbat synagogue service today, in the end they uttered the mourner's Kaddish for those who had recently departed for the unknown elsewhere of our universe, if there is an elsewhere. If the Greek legends really were true we can only believe that now there is a bus idling near the Styx highway, boat long gone. The encounter with the naval crossing like that now lives on in a few places, canal cities, forests of boats.