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Barbeito Double-Shot: Happy Sad Woman Tall Blonde and By The Electric Light
By Brian Michael Barbeito
Apr. 15, 2007
Happy Sad Woman Tall Blonde
- That woman had a hole in her heart. She was full of energy and delight, and must have been six feet all.
- Why did she have a hole in her heart? Did she have an operation to fix it?
- No, it wasn’t a real thing. It was just that she was saddened. It was a gray world in ways…
- A gray world?
- A gray world.
- How so?
- Well she could dance and sing and be everything.
- But that is weird.
- That is not the way.
- Maybe she could dance and sing.
- Well she could intuit everything, or sense a grace, like from God.
- Oh.
- In any event, she had to tone it down, because people are very, worldly, you know, and not otherworldly, acting like they are in paradise.
- But if everyone acted that way, it might lighten things up.
- Exactly. That is what she knew also. That is why she had a hole in her heart. - It’ll mend.
By The Electric Light
Beyond the rooftops and the shingles where the lights shine down, the rain is like snow and the snow is like rain, and it comes down being pushed to the side, gently, like some spirit force is leaning it that way. That is in the deep night when most men and women sleep, covered and in the groove of their lives, and nobody watches the sky. There is a thick silence, and it falls and falls, giving no thought either way to ideas and the sun’s light is on the other side of the world. Out there, somewhere is Jupiter and there are moons, and more than that, there are galaxies. Reaching back into time, trying to grasp where beginnings were, is mortal thought, but that is not the thought of the rain or the snow or the wind, that keeps going through centuries of time. The clouds move around, and get broken apart, and if they make dragons, or snakes, or silly old lakes, it is for no one to see, because night envelopes all things, and people are people, not ghosts or gods. Clocks have hands that move and move, and a second turns into years. Old streets, where the neighborhoods are tough, and the ravines down by the way are not smiling. A group gathers in the great hall, and clinks glasses, and snaps photographs, and allows goodness, conversation, and ease. Out there, the night is cold, and begins to border on disdainful, but it can be managed. The people have stored memories. Memories of spring, memories or upward sloping love, and they use these to survive. They smile now, with hope. The clock ticks, but they pay no attention. They are trying to conquer death with love, whether they know that is what they are doing or not. And beyond the rooftops and shingles, snow falls down as the electric light blinks, and the wind travels across it all.
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