flying nightingales

Song: I’m hiding my nightingale by Can & Margareta Juvan
Painting: Landscape from a Dream by Paul Nash

Sixteen years ago, a field of blues, mountain and hills by the horizon. Green-ribbon-in-the-hair people zigzagged through the streets — for any reason, I’d come to see them as if they were flying horses…in the moonlight. First or last Tuesday of February, still summer.
Never-ending misanthrope cars filling the avenues with sweat, stain, a cold smoke. The red asphalt. People, objects, signs. A flame. Literature…sketching the ground like crystals of time on paper, in life. Inalienable, at that point, to any need for reaching-a-climax as I hastened to University. My first year, very first month. Magical. All of those topographies. Violets and violins…ao luar.
That day, in special, I didn’t come on time. Twenty minutes late I hit the classroom, discreetly. The whole environment seemed to step into me. Professor Jo was there — resplendent, as per usual; voracious, ebullient.
I took a seat. About forty of us. There. A strange, variegated togetherness to behold. Some could glimpse the eloquence of those phrases, thoughts, ideas — so hers. Most simply opted out — also embraced.   
When I could finally engage in her flow of words, voilà: little-night fantasies streams unrelenting desires outbursts thoughts wild-sculptures flowering thirsty waterfalls of…sigh!
“Beyond, literature is beyond,” responded she to one of us. “Pervades everything, it’s everywhere. As to permit both angels and demons of experience, and their missing clouds, to be transformed into texture. Yes, texture. Inviting you in. To touch, hum-and-sway, moan, swirl, yearn. For the most unimaginable reveries. Can you feel it? This dream within a dream within a dream? Listen to the dissonance…towns of words being echoed or fading out. If you close your eyes, can’t you envision Penelope as she weaves a shroud to be dissolved into patchworks of…windmills, words, music, movement? You wouldn’t put poetry in a box as if it weren’t also rhythm, also color, and texture. You wouldn’t penetrate as deafly as deeply its realm unless you were willing to transcend the prefatory layer of limitations and routines. Not only to intellectually ‘understand’ it but to touch poetry, to touch literature you must fling open the curtains of your senses to let in not a single but every gasp of art.”
What is it? Nudging people towards… She’s offering light.
[Words gifts wonders reveries. Shells of expressions. Once they exist — the dreamers of words — we long for being with them. Tacitly desperately intensely. But not exactly in a rush.]  
I often went to talk with her. After class, during, before, in imagination, here and there on the phone, drinking lines upon cups of coffee, all immersed in time. “In contrast to a dream a reverie cannot be recounted,” borrowing she from Bachelard and we both smiled. Yes, it must be written, with emotion and taste. Those myriad discoveries, incandescence(s) — relished, coursing, missed. “Each form, every gasp of art.” Utter bemused slogs through aspirations, inspirations, searching perhaps for a trace of what was once promised. Essential natures for coexisting, a mere window, one wonders. Still a one, there it was.
Anyways. Interesting is the image imagined by the looking glass. The zigzag motion, the breath of a river-discourse in its organic flow(ing). “To what end is art?” asked me last dawn, as I slept, one of my dearest (birdie-)students. Felipe, an artist himself. In front of me, right away, a constellation of thoughts: revisiting Emerson and Thoreau; wondering of how bees can be so perfect at honeying; ah, this Violette, her écriture, her beau…voir; bringing back into heart a desire of holding hands with the ocean, and then I am, here, musing over a key Word and how inescapably intense it has been to feel it for. Dreaming in the most pleasant of ways, skin on skinsoul to soul, [like] a free nightingale. How is it possible?
Here things are. Again. [Like] a river, the Nowness. Basking, myself, in a mélange of reminiscences and a drop of honeyit hovers above my own being. Words whispered from distant lands, close to the eye of my mind. A dream a dream, a reverie. And then, various paintings strewn about. Colors of a dance a taste an open-air imagery, a market made of…fruits?
As I leap forward, the hot bedroom looks at me; it grins. The [unsent] letters written over decades, the simplest of [uncommunicated] emotions. Memoirs to be drawn, bonsoirs unworded, unsaid — all of this reclaims something I cannot discern, for it is…such an in-bed exhilaration, I wonder?
To my right, the pillow still dreams of a poem read right before a dulcet one-upon-a-time sleep, that perfect intonation. An enigma, pure evanescence. To my left, this domain of painting with music as a world of perception is to reveal the first commitment of a soul, (with)in intensity grandeur bewilderment, pervading replenishing lighting up. Every gasp oflife.
The alarm clock beeps again. And again. And again. Everything at issue. Pages of inadequacy, allotments of it. [Estrangement, silence.] Diaphanous [wonder]lands, life itself, literature, this flame, alas!, my classes, frantic streets in the morning, what's time, what's more… Time. To re-present, take a shower, and just shoulder anew some fleeting bonjours


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