Thursday, November 08, 2012

Beyond The Horizon From Here

“These days,” I said, “you meet a lot of nuts on the road.”

She laughed, got close to me, asked, “Do you want to come with?”

I exhaled, said, “No.”

She laughed again, said, “Then shut up.”

I don’t understand distance but I know
there is here and there and I know that here
is not the answer to any question
about Atlantis. I don’t think Brazil
is the answer to those questions, either.

There is nowhere to go but
it is a magic feeling
because it is a lost world
and we can get there from here.

I love almost all Berthe Morisot paintings
and although I wouldn’t call this my “favorite”
I’ve come to suspect I think about this one most:

The composition. The colors. All the meanings.

And it never occurred to me until today
that of all the Impressionists, the rich and poor,
my favorite painter probably traveled least
although she had the means to travel anywhere.

It never occurred to me that I dream of boats
sailing around the world up and down the coastlines
and I dream of visiting Pluto by spaceship
but the artist I admire most never left home.

My two favorite images in the art world
are simply figures of women sitting on lawns.

I don't think anything can “mean” more than these mean.

If I remember correctly, even when France
went to war Berthe Morisot never left home.

Why do I dream of so many distant places—
What are the colors of the planets seen up close?—
when the only here and there that seem to matter
are simple things: What’s here? What’s on the horizon?

I don’t know. I’ve never been to Los Angeles.

It’s a place far beyond the horizon from here.

And I want to go there. Or do I? I don’t know.

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