In Between A + B

I'm a dreamer, it's true. My penchant for dreaming was honed by days of being driven across Canada, through wilderness, for days on end as a child. One must quietly amuse oneself, and there is only so much reading, napping, and listening to music that one can do while traveling. I always found it made me carsick to write on paper, so I composed in my head. I don't usually post two paintings by the same painter on an entry, but Courbet, here, seems to have painted these from the right from the roads I've traveled, and I can almost taste the licorice and scotch mints (road snacks) I used to eat in the Buick. . . . Here are words for you to taste, bon appetit!

Above is Gustave Courbet's Village In Winter, to the right is his The Lake Neuchatel

When you are passing

at 100 km/hr, picking

a spot in the trees or fields

on the banks of the highway,

just the right setting

to place the scene you're building

of a rustic, romantic encounter

and keep your eyes on it

long as possible -----------------------

turning your head until

you can't see it anymore,

but keeping that vision in your mind's eye,

just rest, holding onto it as it is

not changing it, or building it

just waiting and lovingly balancing it

somewhere in between attention

and imagination/ in between

creation and description/

witnessing and daydreaming. . .

Right through the experience -------------

subtly detached ---------- until you see

the same kind of spot again

however many yards and miles have passed.

Some trips, stretches. . .

the reverie builds, strengthens. . . . .

when the settings come more frequently

and there is no rest or reawakening -

to just hold it as it is! -

there's a constancy (that breaks

only long enough for the heart

to pump but never suffer for it's loss);

of a proper place to dream.