Mark's Pages

October 19, 2003:

Familiar voice. Maybe a little nervous, maybe a little tired. Yet behind it the same sparkling mischievousness. As if there were no such thing as time.

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She talks, I listen, something in her words strikes some filament inside me which vibrates in sympathy. Economy: doesn't need to say much. I feel it.

How?

Some talent she possesses for finding the perfect image? The most striking phrase? So that the only phenomenon at work is that of language skillfully, or even, dare I say, beautifully deployed?

Or is there some other force in play? The same mystery, say, which causes dead plants to return to life, just as she comes to engage with me, after so much time?

Maybe we're just a lot alike.

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The light
Begin to bleed,
Begin to breathe,
Begin to speak.
D'you know what?
I love you better now.

I am falling
Like a stone,
Like a storm,
Being born again
Into the sweet morning fog.

I'll kiss the ground.
I'll tell my mother,
I'll tell my father,
I'll tell my lover,
I'll tell my brothers
How much I love them.

— Kate Bush, "The Morning Fog"