The Smell Of Gold

The smell of gold pours down in the form of rain. The frogs respond with a chorus of croaks. An iron door opens to the periphery of a flower. We propose a new color for the daggers of the sun. Admonition sleeps like a tiger in the caverns of the heart. Just one thing I ask of you: listen to the aromas of Oysterville as dawn comes riding in on the foam. This is the music of nuance. This is the music of folds and silences in the crevice between the known and the unknown. It bends to hear the secrets of fish. It feels cool on the skin and opens all the doors to the kingdom of the air. There is nothing nebulous about a dinosaur. The skin is rough and tough and pebbly. The nostrils flare, smelling death. I see a history in the distance, running towards a calendar. Prehistory is a scary place. We need words to create a modicum of meaning in an otherwise meaningless universe. But is that fair? Do we know enough about the universe to call it meaningless? The State Fair is foggy this year. The lights are softly dimmed and the effect is chimerical. One begins to wonder if it’s a real fair or a just fairyland of tingly needles on a canvas of sleep. As soon as you think you know something, you receive a letter questioning everything you thought you knew. Swooning is no longer an option. You have to face reality, whatever reality happens to be at that moment. Meanwhile, the history of phenomena grows longer from year to year. And who, exactly, is writing all this down? Do people still bother with such things? We’re going to do a little blues for you now, says Mick Jagger, and the crowd roars. Maybe that’s it, that’s all we need, a little red rooster and a stipend from NASA. We’re all beginning to wonder if there will be an end to this pandemic. At least before the next pandemic. Time to visit one another before we retire once again into our caves and try reliving our lives again via Zoom and YouTube, the tenuity of the arts balanced on a web of electromagnetic thread. It takes a little sincerity and a few well-chosen words to pray meaningfully and unconditionally for something, backed up by some serious drumming. Let’s get Ginger Baker. Wait a minute. What did you say? He’s dead? When did that happen? The situation is worse than I thought. But there’s hope. Hope is obstinate. And cruel. You need a little blue funk to season the stew. There’s always something, some bit of music, a dream, a confession, a leap of faith, the diversity of forest fungi perpetuating the reverie of the earth. I’m dazzled by the veins of throbbing desolation on a canvas of white paint and little wings striking the air with surprising force. You don’t expect that from paint. And when language tries to substitute for reality the effect can be startling as an old woman knitting a sweater at a Spanish bus station, who might also be selling rolls of toilet paper to people on their way to the rest room. It makes you take another look at obstinacy and give it a little more credit. Life is stubborn. It’s a general characteristic, and it keeps us going. Keeps us talking. Singing. Dancing. Making love. Connecting. Reflecting. Perfecting. Smelting gold.