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| “(What makes this world so hard to see clearly is not its strangeness but its usualness). Familiarity can blind you too.” (Robert M Persig) |
i.
I'm just looking
for a girl that don't mind
that I don't dance so good /
Who am I
to promise her the moon?
I've stopped looking
for someone on this crowded dancefloor
who will
let me lead.
Scientists & doctors
are injecting stars
into my failed
second-hand cornea
while I pretend to sleep.
And for the briefest of moments,
I can see strangers at bus stops
in broad daylight;
offering each other
familiarity and a little magic
in the middle of King Street,
under painted Martin Luther
dream & moon.
Who am I
to offer you the moon?
Mere moments
or a lifetime;
Amongst the chaos & bustle,
we talk like old friends...
Finding salmon pink,
art-making
and memories of Mt. Victoria bus tunnels
in a distant, shaky Capital
at the bottom of the world.
I too
left more than a little of my heart
in that tunnel.
Not once,
but twice.
(perhaps even three times)
Who am I to offer you the moon?
Instead, I offer you
a tiny jar of Nutella.
You offer me tobacco,
I decline.
I am enchanted.
I close my eyes after you have gone,
picture your last dance
at the doors of a big, blue bus
that came at just the right
magic moment.
Or perhaps, too soon?
Leaving me with a painted
Martin Luther
dream & moon.
Words tumble in my head.
I think of
lemon stained words blazing
on ignited paper.
Art can be smelt & tasted, too.
Perfect for this legally blind artist
to appreciate.
Go!!
Go out there
Gem Girl,
Girl of Light & Magic!!!
Make your
(no longer of this plane) Nan
& white-furred feline friend
proud!!
Armed with
only your art & words
and tobacco
(and damn fine smile)
set this earth on fire!!
ii.
Yes.
I too
have left more than a little
of this fierce,
fire-filled,
fast beating
artist's heart
in dark
Mt. Victoria bus tunnels.
I even spent my last
three years in Wellington
living in a tiny bedsit
in Scarborough Terrace...
...just two minutes walk away
from that very same tunnel.
For a brief moment,
two artists danced
with words and hearts and heads.
And just for the record,
just before you leapt up
to catch your bus,
I was just about
to lean over
and whisper in your ear:
"When you talk about your art,
my dear,
I can smell and taste
your
beautiful & pure
white-light soul..."
iii.
I have just survived
a long, twelve hour train-trip
home...
It is morning now.
I am somewhat sleep deprived.
The lightbulb that blew
in my lounge room
the morning I departed for Sydney
is just as I left it.
Yes, the lounge is dark.
But my kitchen
is bathed in pure light!!
I sit here
in my tiny,
sun-drenched kitchen,
birdsong and Autumn whispering
through the
open back door.
I am practising that
beautiful ritual we discussed
of the
first coffee
of the morning...
The mug
warms my fingertips.
I think of you /
somewhere in the big-ness of Sydneytown,
starting your day,
and your
magical morning ritual
of coffee too.
I look at the tiny
sample jar of Nutella
on my kitchen table
and I smile.
And I begin to ponder,
to wonder
where (and whom)
I've left
in this world
my well-worn & read copy of:
"Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance".
(-for Paloma)
(c) Brent M Harpur, 13 May, 2013.
"Artist! You are a magician: Art is the great miracle!!" (Peladan)
“We’re in such a hurry most of the time we never get much chance to talk. The result is a kind of endless day-to-day shallowness, a monotony that leaves a person wondering years later where all the time went and sorry that it’s all gone.”
(Robert M Pirsig)
