posted by maggie on Jan 21
It never ends, it’s a constant manic rush of magic, things gone wild turned upside down and once in awhile a great notion, and you are in New York. And it doesn’t matter so much about the pace as the grace, and the rhythm doesn’t always hit everyone the same way, but it does hit, and when it comes, it becomes meaner than an avenging angel. Someone somewhere stole someone, and it’s nothing that can be forgiven, not in this life, and not in this generation. Searching endless, fearless, and some moments play out sweeter than others. But the best things happen in between the subway stops, or sometimes they get lost in the cracks in the sidewalks.
It never matters all that much, because when you’re in New York, in your airport hotel, you understand that this is the first time for whatever comes next. You never know what that will be, because the faster things go, the more we can become still just for spite, and that’s where the hidden meanings lie. All the glamour and the glitz washes away and comes to mean this, the search for the father, or just the moment, which has already made a decision to become something else in spite of you. This isn’t the way things have always been, but this is the way they stand from here on out, apparently.
It never changes, because eternity was always here, from the very beginning. Before the white horses came trolling on gas light streets, carrying passengers from one fine kettle of fish to another one. Desolation is what rules us in the streets, and it rules us inside the great divine head that stands in our place when we have decided to check out for the night. This is where it starts, this is where it ends, icons and dreams of a country that never came to be, because no one ever understood the blueprint, and in the end, only mothers get to choose the last songs playing for the lost sons.