The tunnel isn't even a metaphor.

The tunnel is a tunnel.

The black hole is a hole.

And, of course, passing through is passing through

Or not passing through is  

What interests me:

what forms a tunnel?

what pressures keep it?

what compels the matter through?

lines of equilibrium

phase boundaries

phase transitions

the heat or entropy of the solvent

the condition - why?

the crystal lattice breaks

and we lose her

following

as we are compelled to

as time could be a tunnel,

the fragility of matter: a kind of tunnel

following

as we are compelled to 

how long will our constituent parts hold?

what are they

- interesting? unassembled?

and what will they become after?

There is a coldness in the air.

Change is fine with indifference.

It is hard for us

who travel so.

Or, maybe,

 it isn't.

nice ski day!

no pics.
no wind either: stopped when we started, started when we stopped.

okay. found a pic online.  Lake Minnewanka.  Nice skiing on t'other side.
the Canadian Rockies kick ASS!

Somewhere near there is new life

a hum that will become a concerto

time for a stretch of time, unmarked

the could-be of love

close

the whole box of matches

can burst into flame 

the aurora leaps green off the ice.

It is not too late 

for everything.

Look for

surprise

and find it.

The Washing Machine Blues

just for memory's sake: here I am playin' junk at Bruno's in Banff.  PERFECT bar.

great time.

random upload of photo to write about.

There are no unsacred places;
There are only sacred places
And desecrated places.

                -Wendell Berry

Italian Dream

A good thing

- in Italy - 

that most houses stay

with their foundations

with, perhaps, their Umbria and its bells

and can be walked past by the old man

who remembers stealing a loose rock from the stone fence

decades earlier, perhaps throwing it and 

unfortunately

hitting his target.

The world is there.

Largely the same.

And the bend in the road

Down from the heart-shaped town

through the sunflowers

the olive orchards 

down until the road flattens for awhile

then winds up.

We show them

how to make life transparent

and its moorings 

susceptible to the wind

how the ground below you

can become something else

that never had anything to do

with you.

You can see through one house

to another.  They are all the same.

And our histories are all the same.

We want what they want.

They want what we want.

We'll get it.  Want something else

or look through our window

and not want that

meet someone

and not want them

Context is an embarassment.

Subtext is worse.

Ours is a two-dimensional life

suspended in corn-syrup.

Sweet, clear.

You will be happy.

A calendar will tell you when to be a bit happier

for a day.

Entire lives drift past you.

Houses, lovers, thoughts that never took root 

drift like another sourceless mood.

This is okay.

There is no meaning to it.

Any history is bullshit.

And the air 

or the fluid that we turn in

is not sacred either.

Place is something

we can do without.

catching up as if Day 4/December 4

To The Whaling Captain

Is it so different

This standing on the prow

staring towards the lack of clear

delineation

between sky and sea

between up and down

now and then

How to categorize the mysteries that compel us.

Stay up late in the rocking cabin

and index what you can.

We obsess over the giant that is out there

or has turned and moves right underneath

inevitable opponent

with as much need of us

as these distances themselves

And yet we are here

It is our eyes that are open

now

Mine open yours again

And the vessel that takes us

gathers speed

the sound of the wet ropes

pulling the canvas taut.

random upload of photo to write about.

Though it is late

Hold the house up to the light

See there - 

it is a rainy day.

The tree stands

thin in the wind

as it always has.

And the house

though small enough to fit 

now

in my hand

appears to have windows, still

that could be looked out of

and one imagines

a table that could be set

smaller now

and further back in time.