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  • You asked about enchantment. What can I tell you?

    The planet enchants me in intimate ways, when it goes on without me like a jazz riff never-ending around saxophone suns (would they be Sonny Rollins or Sonny Stitt or the great Ben Webster at the Nuway? Ben at a jazz joint I picture out on a night highway, blowing soft billows to tear you apart from Trenton to New Amsterdam...) like the neon signage in its late ether gas, it goes on without me, and even when I have the blues, and I have had them but good as of late, the planet can enchant me, in its uncaring. So unaware it is spectacular.

    I said to him, Do you know how beautiful you are?
    He said, No.
    I said, That is your beauty; that you are so unaware.

    I like things that don't know what they are. Yet I keep probing to know them. I like to be mesmered by their offhandedness. The Zen closer who has one pitch, who pitches it like Everest, who climbs into clouds, closing the final inning; the pitch, the shower, he walks off the green green field, the power of the work, the unawareness distilled to crystalline abilities.

    The nights of October close themselves faster now, not yet November-surgical, but softly like the die-down of the note we love to walk in, as it lingers in trees in early magic.

    We might be stopping by a way station, this thing we call life. It might be an oasis in the galaxy desert. We might be here for a short cup of enchantment. We might be variations on an ancient jazz tune the rocks blew and winged creatures saw, and soared through the silent pulsing notes into far beyond forever.

    The night could be green, the drinks cold, the music tenor sax or Gerry Mulligan baritone. We could keep company, and wait until morning to discover the exact colour of each other's eyes when we move on to the quiet after-party for two, in a red leather booth further down the oasis highway, and the cups are hot, the waitress has to be Ethel or Betty, the words have to include dear and honey, and the view out the eatery window is of the basalt, the shale, the granite, the gravel, the sand.

    The sand is doing a samba, the sand is surfing on its own devolving bodies.

    We could go there.

    It might be a place across the drought we call Enchantment.


    (Painting by Susan, variation on Swan, Oct 5, 2013)
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