1-3-93

Tomorrow it's back to Madison and whatever fortunes left long ago.  These two weeks have been speedy.  They have been semi-eventful.  When will I return here and where will I go in less than eight months?  I yearn for something to hold on to, but life's game is just take, take, take, and soon I will be bare.  It's not as if I started off with a lot to begin with.

I don't fear, but I am unhappy imagining.

                     Ever closer to an edge,
                     Leaving what wasn't behind,
                     Torn between what cannot be
                     And what will.
                     The present is a side glance,
                     Here and there again,
                     Its interests are phantasmal,
                     Carrying me away.
                     It is no wonder.
                     I am tired.

The black feathers scattered into the wind, twisting as they fluttered to the ground.  The pattern in which they lie reveals a chance to return.  He pulls from his satchel a small pouch, in which he dips his fingers.  They emerge caked in white.  Slowly he touches them to his lips, his tongue.  Then he reaches in again, then pulling out a pinch of it, and places it on the pattern.

It begins to change, to spread and change its tint.  Before it stops moving, as if organized by the low wind that pushes across the mesa, it has revealed a shape.  It is human.  It is female.  Its simple form tantalizes his bending thoughts.  Here he sees an eye, grey-blue like his home sky, here he sees a breast, simply beautiful.  And here are the lips, calling his name:  Awakami.