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!
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.