Bayou Dreamer
There are certain frayed thoughts on the edge of my consciousness feeling like pieces of truth that have been triggered by the fish in Bayou St. John where I sat this morning with my back to Moss and finished reading the encapsulation of Slyvia Plath's life, The Bell Jar (with biographic afterforward).
Will you be putting up a fence around the place?
Will you be getting a TV for the new place?
A domesticated dog came up as I sat there and licked my ear while her owner looking like Bridget Jones suggested--Duchess don't do that.
The Bayou is a real gem of a place and Marie Laveau her ownself would tell you same if you could get to her.
The phone's ringing and ringing and finally is picked up by a sleeper who calls for another boy who has to examine various figures sleeping on the floor before finding the right one who then begins talking loudly to his mother.
All of us various organisms making up Nature are being very still and quiet this morning and the black glass surface of the Bayou reflects, as a background to the trees and houses, pink and orange sky, so that it is above and below and in front and you can get closer to the idea of altered dimension. Which is where the fish comes in...
...breaking the surface of the water and gliding through the air while turning sideways to slap the bayou and coming up and flying a total of three separate times to break the glass into a dimension where pretty pictures disappear and geometry or something from the mathmatic art world comes in so that three separate but entwined circles radiated rippled waves outward to cross each other and form yet another dimension which clearly exists in front of me with no more added to my personal chemistry than coffee and the poignancy of a great long dead writer. And other than the occasional bellowing of a drunk man way far off down by the church there is no auditory distraction whatsoever; there is a place so quiet yet charged with pure vivaciousness. There is an essence of something desirable.
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There are certain frayed thoughts on the edge of my consciousness feeling like pieces of truth that have been triggered by the fish in Bayou St. John where I sat this morning with my back to Moss and finished reading the encapsulation of Slyvia Plath's life, The Bell Jar (with biographic afterforward).
Will you be putting up a fence around the place?
Will you be getting a TV for the new place?
A domesticated dog came up as I sat there and licked my ear while her owner looking like Bridget Jones suggested--Duchess don't do that.
The Bayou is a real gem of a place and Marie Laveau her ownself would tell you same if you could get to her.
The phone's ringing and ringing and finally is picked up by a sleeper who calls for another boy who has to examine various figures sleeping on the floor before finding the right one who then begins talking loudly to his mother.
All of us various organisms making up Nature are being very still and quiet this morning and the black glass surface of the Bayou reflects, as a background to the trees and houses, pink and orange sky, so that it is above and below and in front and you can get closer to the idea of altered dimension. Which is where the fish comes in...
...breaking the surface of the water and gliding through the air while turning sideways to slap the bayou and coming up and flying a total of three separate times to break the glass into a dimension where pretty pictures disappear and geometry or something from the mathmatic art world comes in so that three separate but entwined circles radiated rippled waves outward to cross each other and form yet another dimension which clearly exists in front of me with no more added to my personal chemistry than coffee and the poignancy of a great long dead writer. And other than the occasional bellowing of a drunk man way far off down by the church there is no auditory distraction whatsoever; there is a place so quiet yet charged with pure vivaciousness. There is an essence of something desirable.
- jimlouis 7-28-2001 2:42 pm