You never stay long in the same moment. Anything — remotely — you have ever once been finds a way back through memory, briefly re- joined. Time — seamless and without fixture — somehow sediments itself into graver-denser mixtures the richness of which becomes easily beyond bearing. You seafare to the Sun and the Moon’s GLOWMOTION towards the shifting heart of this exponentially widening ocean (trackless unharbour of a sum total absence of harbours) and what keeps you sane at the end of the day at the end of sanity’s bare edge is the simplest of prayers whispered all along the full length of your each and every out-breath, unpious and without demands: Thank you.
Across glass across the rich pre-morning dusk, quizzical and direct, the mother stared, as did the hidden joey through the peephole in her bulging fur-lined pouch ⸺ four wide bright kangaroo eyes dead set against me staying even one minute longer on my mattress on the floor in stupid sleep. Frost was in the air, was all over in me, any personal warmth quite dexterously extinguished along goose-bumped human skin. But for all that, mist lifted in shape-shifting sheets off the small pond as if to say: See, Sun is on its way! And don’t go thinking the feebleness of this sign makes the outcome any less certain! Saturn could shine for all he was worth up towards the North, canary- or sulphur-yellow, but these kangaroos had no time for him: today, I was their object and nothing else on this Earth would do . . . Dressed gingerly by now inside crumpled coldish clothes I knelt and watched back, humming absent-mindedly an old Swedish song about a stable-boy called Staffan, who was, no doubt, at another moment just like this, watering sina fålar fem ⸺ his beautiful five young horses ⸺ probably wide-eyed to his every move, maybe naturally starry-eyed, too, as he made up his own tune out of hay scents and the rank stink of piss through the careful-tactile stages of his work ⸺ more to do with blind touch than sight ⸺ for the spark of life kindling again out of nowhere within him in that frigid lidless twilight before dawn.
You can listen to one version of the Swedish songhere.
At this point in time a finger on the trigger is the only fact you can possibly make headroom for while your opponent ⸺ if there is such an assailant ⸺ manages to snaffle every hiding-place on offer in this weather-boarded weather-beaten ghost-town. TIME AT THIS POINT PASSES YOU BY: needles on the cacti spike out an extra inch of their substance; TIME AT THIS POINT PASSES YOU BY: a whole small mountain removes itself in equal measures of fine dust and sand to relocate in horse winds galloping the prairie or in long lung-linings elastic with howl in a grey wolf; TIME AT THIS POINT PASSES YOU BY: you feel the rougher molecules in particles, then atoms densely packed in discrete motes of steel, as texture ⸺ out of thin air ⸺ overtakes by stealth all those sources of distraction in your porous cowboy head. You don’t exactly lose yourself in this quest for concentration, but, in blinding sunset’s molten yellow glare, as your man-shadow lengthens past the point of no return it is you who go off ⸺ not that figment of a firearm you once held in your hand and when you turn for home puzzling in this dark adaptation and navigating by new stars in your personal undergalaxy, there is no time to spare even one last thought for any Wild Western smoking gun’s linger . . .
Photograph: 香港龍躍頭天后宮 Tin Hau Temple, Lung Yeuk Tau, Hong Kong