Wednesday, June 17, 2009


The sun is shining in Amsterdam and a cool breeze blows steadily through the windows of the apartment. It is Wednesday.
The days are running short, hours flying by, bringing me ever closer to the 23rd and my departure to Marrakech. It is Wednesday.
In the other room, G's newest couchsurfer is sleeping soundly, after arriving from Atlanta, GA just over an hour ago. It is Wednesday.
I haven't written in so long- and the more time goes by, the more I have to say but the fewer words to adequately do so. It is Wednesday.
I think of life, I think of love, I think of the lines of my favorite poem ever, and just for the moment I feel completely at peace:

Writing Lives
Out of a life it is done
and without ever knowing
how things will turn out

or what a life is for that matter
any life at all
the leaf in the sunlight the voice in the day
the author in the words

and the invisible
words themselves
in whose lives we appear
and learn to speak
until what is said seems
to be almost everything
that can be known

one way with the words is to tell
the lives of others
using the distance as a lens

and another way
is when there is no distance
so that the water
is looking at water

as when on a winter morning
as early as you can remember
while the plains were whitening
in the light before dawn
you saw your uncle- was it
your uncle?- reach
from the shadow and wash his face

to us it is clear
that if a single moment could be seen
complete it would disclose the whole

there is still that light in the water
before sunrise
the untold day

- W.S. Merwin

It is Wednesday.

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