17 november

Driving home, Frosty melting, Garrison Keillor comforting in public radio love, blur of scene, vague familiarity in the way we have of adjusting to what’s new becoming old – without knowing, without growing accustomed in a deep way, without saying anything more than I know where that is, without knowing anything more than location, without hesitation to dismiss – where is the depth of field, the high-yield intensity of longevity in one location? We are the movers, we are the new quakers, the earth-shakers and the bringers of wheat to wherever we want to be. What do we need and where do we have roots? Do we have shoots? Ladders? Are we gladder for the movement or are the truths spent rushing by as the blurs pull up with another moving van and the catamaran goes whoosh— the use of all this action and the traction still untenable: we’re full up here and elsewhere’s empty, so you’d better head off to there. Who stays in one place? Who wins any race with more than one medal, with any sort of mettle tied up in a basket of nexterday produce. Production rates up! A loving cup to drink when the market’s fresh and farming while alarming trends hit the tenderhearts—but let us depart in peace, for here’s the parking lot and there’s a spot for me.