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You write something and it surprises you, frightens you, delights you. Words come out of nowhere and fill the white space before you know what's happened. They arrive like a rain out of blue skies, like rising flocks of dead leaves in an autumn winds, a blanket of rustling orange and yellow, unfurled across a wide meadow, like these words coming out now, even as I type I barely pause to collect them, catch what I can and press them down while dozens of other images and sounds rush by lost in chaos.

What gets written down and what gets forgotten, missed? How much of it is accident and how much is deliberate? The writer has to become an editor at some point, recollect the vomit of an enthusiastic imagination and make some meaning of the words left in the wake of brush with some brilliant shining moment that rips one out of the here, the now, and skies are golden with a shining light, or red with apocalypse, clear crystal blue of an epic landscape or the roiling black of nightmare.

I haven't seen the sky in so long, a real sky, not a sky glanced and caught between building-tops like a tarp flung over a construction site. A sky stretching over ocean, a sky reaching into mountains, a sky that runs on forever, and never returns a sound, swallows up every thought in its immensity and leaves nothing in its wake. A sky like that lives in my mind. This is a red sky, a hungry sky, and I fear for the things it swallows up. There is no blue of infinity there, no clear crystal ringing sound of mountains, no, it is the hunger of madness and jealousy.

More and more, the madness consumes things and spits them back out, jealous of their prettiness, angry and hateful, it chews every figment of the imagination and renders it useless so that the only option left is to vomit out what one can, in the depth of the night, in the claws of exhaustion, in the extreme limits of consciousness when one might as well be under the ether, so the words may run, like sweet syrup, unencumbered by that red sky, just throw them out like grains in a basket, cast into the air to separate the seed from the chaff, watch the leathery-skinned women on the roadside draped in colorful-sari's lined up and casting them into the air with their woven baskets, shake, shake, toss, and on the hill, the red hill, the crimson hill, the blood hill, there are boys flying kites with strings made of glass, watch the sun shine off of the blades, a sliver glistening in the blue sky, an endless canopy at the edge of the plateau where the river marks the end of the desert, and splits the old from the new, and on and on, subdividing, forever, until the divisions, divide me, into an infinite, recursive, fractal.

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September 2011
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