Burtman.net

A Moment Of Reflection

This used to be my back yard.

I loved this place.

When the winter came, the snow was two feet thick - enough to poor over and into my boots and enough to hide my van from view.

That was the first time I loved the winter.

I was working the night shift, back then, and I'd come out at 6am, to give my dog a quick walk, before I could finally hit the hay. And I loved mornings for the first time, too.

Floating on a moat, eyes down and hands together, towed by inexplicable currents towards a half-drawn horse-bridge, in the early evening mist; a well-suited metaphor for the dying energy of the past five months.

The monsters are gone, but in their absence, it is easier to hear the echoes of festivities that now live so far away - once again foreign to these ears.

The rain has started to fall. The nights are colder and the time has been and gone to end this.

But as the mornings mourn for themselves, the green has reddened and browned, and with an eye cast to the rafters, there is a starkness to the empty gray, and its diffused, seemingly artificial, light.

And so, with doors and windows bolted, a storm appears, ready.

Cataloging another temporary goodbye, as I head back to nowhere in particular, my new home by the beach, on the mountain, or wherever the music is, what I thought was a yawn became a flood of tears as I realized I had said more than goodbye, and less than I should have.

Familiarity of faces and gestures, voices and energy, and the absence of it - well, there's more to it than I thought.

And while this time alone may be exactly what I need, I am struggling not to give the first day to pain as a gift.

"Remember why you're here."

An otherwise calm and beautiful day, all but spoiled by the lack of a parking space makes about as much sense as the lack of a parking space in a city the size of this one. And there is little need for tears this early int othe journey, save for releasing emotional turmoil all at once, so as to clear the slate in preparation for a new try at life.

"Remember why you're here."

And on this first day, as I sit, surrounded by the disorganized left-overs of the less-than-subtle heart attack that comes with letting go of a cherished hand, I must try to remain focused and remember why I'm here;

To build a life at least as vibrant as the one I put down when I drove away from Prague, and start something new. Make some money. Learn a language. Embrace the unknown.

Because all I have to hold right now is that phrase. And as I recall it, some action, surely greater and more worthy than crying over a stinging heart, must be taken.

"Remember why you're here."

I put myself aside for a moment, reluctant to stand, and make my way, the full step, to my new kitchen, to take care of mortal matters, before tending to my mind, as I begin to explore this new place.

A warm meal, some fresh clothes and a camera, to capture moments I don't want to forget. And a mantra. To keep my head above the waves.

Reading the lines and reading in between the lines of poems you wrote since we met, Taking my time and playing out my lines and trying to remember what I forget. Fear is a stranger and comfort is a mystery. There is only looking, and seeing.

Because we're always pitching tents in the sand. Tents for love. Tents for happiness. Tents for dreams we may never chase, and tents for the sake of pitching. Or because doing nothing is more tragic than wasting time doing things that don't make us dance.

I saw a woman pitching a 2-berth, literal. On the beach in Barcelona. Spent a good twenty minutes pegging down one side, only to watch the other end fly out of the sand as any logic would expect. To her, determination, resolve. Purpose. Were worth more than acceptance of losing a battle with intelligence.

And we all pitch tents as futile as hers, from time to time. And today, I am working on my pitching skills.

I sat on the shore where two worlds meet, with questions hanging from lips.

Through warming panes, on aging doors, the morning glows, separating faces from backgrounds and favoring the vivid and the brave.

Split through bamboo blinds and softened by the presence of plants on a windowsill, as bugs begin their work and I take my time to admire them, spring's cold mornings and warm noons provide the theme for another chance at life.

A lone and slender tree passes shapes to a garden wall, where ivy climbs with the usual goal, and the broken red brick it relies on lends texture to the scene.

The unforgettable scent of lavender rides the breeze to reach far beyond the garden, where a miniature world exists for its own purposes and not for those of humanity.

Arching across the gate, like reaching hands, a family of vines grow patiently towards the low morning sun. Just beyond the wall, oranges grow in rows and the ocean's quiet vocal can be heard by those who listen; quiet but sure.

Where there are miles of heated road and nothing more than concrete for a view, there is space to imagine and to feel what is not yet there.

And when fatigue and boredom meet, and the radio becomes a blur of familiarity that sits on worn-in grooves, the pit stop awaits.

The clock tells no lies. The day passed by and food creeps to mind by the side of the rushing freeway. Your own part of time relaxes and the details of the benches and trucks, the fences and strangers' looks, and the tires of your own rig, reveal themselves to your drooping eyes. And in their innocence, your interest is ably piqued and without need for words, you found your home, at least for now.

A week before we left together for Spain, and you would later leave without me, you gave me a magic bean.

This simple gesture shows me so much love, and now you are far, once again, and it hurts to see it.

My morning was quiet, excepting the usual rush of the city's transport and the soft wash of the Mediterranean. I sat for many hours, quiet and thoughtful, and wished for you to be here, with me and my magic bean.

But all the wishing in the world doesn't make fact from fiction, and you are still far, editing videos and meeting friends, from whose memories, I shall soon disappear.

And I am still here, with my magic bean, and the jazzy sunglasses case you also gave me, that day. I found it last night and it was just in time, as the sun has, once more, begun to shine.

I prepared hte cargo bay for transit and readied myself for a new horizon, and as I did, my magic bean remained the last thing on the shelf. But there is nowhere to put him yet, so he sleeps in his canister, unknowing of the summer sun, or the dramas of the recent days, and awaits his time.

Skin lined with bumps of passion, frequent and unrelenting, pulsing to the sounds of the country and all its string and bow.

Voices high in register, powerful and well used, furnishing the soul with culture and bringing new love.

Sand and bare foot, heat and time, no shame. Only music.

You know, sometimes, I feel like everything makes sense. Everything has a reason and it fits together like it's all some grand design. People and things and whatever.

And then there are days like this, where meaning is just an idea that evaporates on a whisper. Everything is kind of hectic and I just want to fly away somewhere new and live in a tree house.

These days, I call 'the days of loss', because I lose all sense of importance. These are the days when I'm least predictable. I'll drive for the sake of it and end up in Poland. If I wake up on another day of loss, I might marry some Polish chick and move in with her by Thursday. If not, maybe I turn around and head home. Or maybe I just live in Poland now. It's anyone's guess.

In days of loss, life takes on a new perspective. It's like changing the lens. It's all different. Completely different.

Today was a day of loss. I started a business based on a song lyric and got my first client 15 minutes later. Point is, when you don't care anymore, you can do amazing things. Because you're not limiting yourself anymore. You know, cos you don't care.

Days of loss. Days when you can actually win.

My shallow breath catches itself on the lung, shocking my life rhythm into scattered beats, and laying waste to the calm.

Dusty memories catch the wind, losing their antiquity and learning vibrancy, all the while, staring across an unlit hall, where I have kept them for lack of a better place.

Uncharacteristic beams of late summer blast through the lenses with which I view the world, starling my sleeping soul, unearthing my sinking feet.

I had a dream like this, but it was soon over, thanks, or no-thanks, to the heart I wear on my sleeve.

Somewhere on the surface, a bump raises itself and rouses its kin, forming a new shape out of me.

My hunger is not for food, and my promise is not to stay, yet a change this late in the day, could still be swayed.

Brevity is a tormentor of lovers, and I am not immune to its trademark aching. Given, I will ache some more, but not in vain.

Unfolding before me is a quest, the likes of which, I have never seen. And with the work behind, I am armed.

In between sips of Adam's words and melodies from the band, a lonesome trumpeter emerged, building soundscapes with his hand.

I followed on the wave of jazz, to sit down where he played, and spoke with him about his art and the feelings that it made.

In Chicago his dream resides, and that dream is like my own. His trumpet, twice his age, and by a hundred people, blown.

We spent a while and shared in slices of each others' lives, in conversation punctuated by the trumpet's cries.

Yesterday morning, I woke up with a smile on my face, and headed out to meet you.

Yesterday afternoon, I returned home with a broken heart.

The Latest Earthquake: Everything in good time.

This guy:

The Latest Earthquake: I've changed my mind.