The first This [or the second This if I'm considering the List of Sandwiches to be the first This, which I am] is a small collection of items recently given to me by three different people in my life.
Because even though I neither believe in angels, attend AA, or write poetry, I need to be able to accept the things I cannot change, to change the things I can, to be reminded that someone out there believes everyone is worth being watched over and protected, including me. And I need to know that people write poems like the one in the test tube, and that other people shrink those poems down, print them on vellum, place them inside glass to momentarily disguise the language, its sharp, stabbing fierceness:
Lightning hits the roof,
shoves the knife, darkness,
deep in the walls.
They bleed light all over us
and your face, the fan, folds up,
so I won't see how afraid
to be with me you are.
We don't mix, even in bed,
where we keep ending up.
There's no need to hide it:
you're snow, I'm cool,
I've got the scars to prove it.
But open your mouth,
I'll give you a taste of black
you won't forget.
For awhile, I'll let it make you strong,
make your heart lion,
then I'll take it back.
Sometimes you have to make the hard things small, the beautiful things small, the dangerous things small, the honest things small, before you can really see them for what they are. Sometimes you have to shrink something down to protect people from it, to protect yourself from it, but all that happens is that you end up wanting to understand it even more, now that it's 2pt font, now that it's mostly disappeared matter, and that shrinking ultimately magnifies it beyond any sense of font size or physical space. Magnifies it till it's all you can see.
My other This for today is Björk. More particularly, it's the last four songs Björk performed at the Hollywood Bowl last night. A slow, ethereal concert ended in a gorgeous mess of electronic insanity, beats, vibration, and flames. Literal flames. You can imagine how much I freaked the fuck out. After snarking that Trent Reznor wishes he wrote that song when "Mutual Core" ended, our minds were blown by the most epic finale I've ever seen at a concert. Because flames started shooting out of the stage. Balls of fire.
Then there was a costume change. And the result was the following outfit and the most dancable song Björk ever wrote, and N and I basically melting into a puddle of awe and bliss on the floor of the Hollywood Bowl amphitheater.
|PH: Debi Del Grande|