2005-05-22
Mixing Memory and Desire
Yesterday I was invited over to dinner at Pierce's house. At the dinner table, I sat next to his grandfather, who is a former senator for Florida, and we discussed--the entire evening--the country's state of affairs...and the best options for a future career.
Double-majoring in Economics and Political Science will--despite Andrew's accusations of my being insane--be the best career decision that I can ever make. Charisma and charm are just as important as skill. In fact, those two things are a skill.
The dinner was lovely, and the tea was delicious. Pierce's mother suggested that I purchase an Ott lamp ("sunshine" lamp) for myself when I move up to Rochester. I was telling Andrew about it, which inspired him to look more into the subject--due to his own curiousity--and perhaps even purchase one for himself. My objective for this year is to maintain my health and sanity. I dislike medication...thus, I will purchase something that simulates natural sunlight.
As we near summer, the dusks grow more beautiful. I will miss my summers, and the fragrant breath of flowers. It's difficult to rebuild and repatch these images and instances--the things to which I have become accustomed.
I've always thought of nighttime and how peaceful it would be to fish in the sky, as Thoreau said. At night--late into the night--the house is still. There are small, hardly noticeable creaks of cabinets and wooden furniture; and there are the comforting, velvet-silenced ticks of our house clocks. Sometimes when I close my eyes the drowsiness feels so heavy and overwhelming that I begin to imagine things, and I see white, smokey demons flying inside my head. They're more like pixies...they're fragile and transluscent.
I hear the depth of the sky's ocean with gentle waves slapping the sides of the boat. The sky's ocean is so serene, with the satin-blearied clouds of midnight blue. The whiteness of stars cut through the satin--just faintly, burning in the far distance.
I'm reminded of the poem by Robert Frost...I imagined him walking through the quiet, sleeping city with only the conversation of his heels against the pavement to entertain him.
But being a fisherman in the sky involves more...it possesses the same feeling of contentness and serenity, but with a deeper sense romance and memory. There's memory without regret. The golden funnel filter's out melancholy, leaving us with something pure...and we engage in admiring the past state of things.
Fishing in the sky is paradise seldom reached. I'd give anything to venture deep in the woods, hugged by the massive, cool shade...and to close my eyes and hear the hollow creaking of the boat, and the tightening of the ropes holding the sail, and the feel of fog-drops melting on my warm face. And in the distance, I will catch the dust-golden burning of an antique flame, and see that another fisherman approaches.