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    Run For Your Life, Black Hockey Jesus!
    « Talking To Bikes | Main | Why I'm A Bad Zen Buddhist, Or Maybe A Good One, Depending On How One Defines Presence »

    And This Is You

    You wake up rooms. When you walk in the door, everything cheers. Welcome! Whatever you look at swoons in the glow of your attention: people, tables, memories, spoons. Yes. Even spoons. The spoon you ate your soup with was instantly in love, lived only to serve you, to be with your hand, to touch your lips—it’s still, to this very day, writing poems that mourn your loss. Everything aches for your lively gaze. The whole room is tense, trembling, waiting to arise in your view. The menu sings. The smug table mocks the others. Your glass of wine gasps with every single sip. And the floor—the wooden floor’s past and future cohere with meaning in the event of propping your stance, your walk, and the booth in which you sit. It recalls its origins, built by cursing men with swinging hammers, aware of its inevitable demolition, all unquestionably justified by the presence of your feet. And the people, men and women alike, see you and forget themselves. They are ghosts with no memories. They can’t look you in the eye. They feel like weeping and can’t say why. The flickering candle is humbled, silent, content to merely light the way.

    Don’t wonder who this is about. It’s about you. You wake up rooms.   

    Reader Comments (21)

    Really really good.

    March 20, 2011 at 8:11 PM | Unregistered CommenterNeil

    Good one.

    March 20, 2011 at 8:15 PM | Unregistered Commentertuverasgalan

    God damn it,

    March 20, 2011 at 8:32 PM | Unregistered CommenterHelen Jane

    crazy mad in love with your writing

    March 20, 2011 at 8:35 PM | Unregistered CommenterSlow panic

    You. I love (it). Sounds weird, but might be true.

    March 20, 2011 at 9:51 PM | Unregistered CommenterDebi

    this is gorgeous.

    March 20, 2011 at 10:07 PM | Unregistered Commenterflutter

    I spent part of this weekend collecting spoons and making art with them.

    I was pretty sure they were smiling, but I had no idea about the swooning. That's exciting.

    March 20, 2011 at 10:57 PM | Unregistered CommenterJett

    And the piano has been drinking. Or to move it to this entry's turf, you intoxicate pianos.

    March 20, 2011 at 11:12 PM | Unregistered Commenterpalinode

    I love Palinode's comment almost as much as I love this post.

    March 21, 2011 at 3:03 AM | Unregistered Commenteredenland

    I love the spoon, I'm just not IN love with it. Sorry.

    March 21, 2011 at 6:00 AM | Unregistered Commentertinsenpup

    I'll take it.

    March 21, 2011 at 6:34 AM | Unregistered CommenterLisa

    You wake up something inside my head. Not sure what...

    March 21, 2011 at 8:30 AM | Unregistered Commenterpam

    this post was perfect. sometimes your writing is frighteningly elegant. you have a fantastic economy with words.

    oh and also, the Palinode leaves the best comments in the history of comment-leaving. that's all.

    March 21, 2011 at 10:39 AM | Unregistered CommenterNatalie

    these words, dammit; well now i'm thinking of Spoon by dave matthews. what can i say? can't resist me a violin. and 90's tunes. apparently.

    March 21, 2011 at 11:54 AM | Unregistered Commenterleel

    And here I thought my farts only waked the dog!

    March 21, 2011 at 4:47 PM | Unregistered Commentermuskrat

    Almost makes me wish I was the floor. Lovely.

    March 22, 2011 at 4:13 PM | Unregistered Commentersadie7

    I'm coming out from my lurk to say this ...

    THIS is why I was sure you wouldn't cut my head off.

    March 24, 2011 at 11:28 AM | Unregistered CommenterJocelyn

    bam. on the floor. dead.

    March 24, 2011 at 9:50 PM | Unregistered Commentermommymae

    you wake up rooms.

    March 27, 2011 at 7:42 AM | Unregistered Commenterwhite crow

    this is one of my faves from you!

    March 27, 2011 at 3:04 PM | Unregistered Commenterlindsay

    Your writing has often moved me, sometimes to tears. This is the first time it has physically struck me and drew blood. Bravo, maestro. Bravo.

    May 9, 2011 at 8:07 PM | Unregistered CommenterIrma

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