Letter From My Blood
I watched a film about a man chasing an endless wind named after a machine that tries to catch it, too. In his pursuit, there was a woman among several, yet this one, she would before the end of him maybe mean the most.
She had told him a yes.
I had heard of this woman before. I didn’t know she was to be in his pursuit until he was shared after he and all of him was gone. Yes, that kind of gone. I was allowed to see this all he was, this was a gift, his and her gift, for me and for you should you find it, too.
This woman was to be up the road from where I stay, telling a story while making new ones. I wanted to go, I wanted to hear, more. I got in my chariot and started up the road only to quickly turn around. I didn’t want to have the same machine all that went to listen to her did. So I returned to where I stay, retrieved a different machine and got back on the road. I had decided that if the moment presented itself, I wanted to have a portrait of her, too. Her, standing alone, the wind in her hair. Not just because this man’s wind was once in her’s, but because of what she makes, too.
I drove 90 miles, entered a restaurant to relieve some pressure and while doing so, noticed I had a roach on my chest crawling upwards towards my face. Shortly later, I arrived at the goal, early. So I sat alone far away and watching. I approached the man a different man I know calls the pope. As I started to introduce myself, the pope shrugged it off. The pope said he would know that face, my face, under any light or color. The pope told me he watches me. I said, “You must be that one.” To which he replied, “Just because no one is talking out loud, don’t think no one is looking.” I handed the pope the best of me bound in many pages and started to leave. This pope, told me to stop and first endorse these pages of me as my best. We had no scribe so one was found. I thanked him for all he shares, too.
I saw who I came to see only from afar. When I first saw her, it was like I already had. I saw the wind blow her hair with my own eyes before the sun went down this day. I sat in the dark later and listened to her tell stories, too. I decided this was enough. I made nothing, I asked her nothing and I did not meet her. I was ready to return. There were all the reasons in the world to tell her a thank you, but I no longer felt I had to.
I then drove 60 miles towards backwards. I stopped for nourishment. I sat alone in an empty restaurant and when I looked down into my ketchup, there was a fly, trapped in it.
All 13 May 2011 – At The Start Of Others – Texas