Friday, October 29, 2004
Claire Brewster
~
Claire Brewster taught me how to describe a ship crossing the horizon and a sandy hand tossing a flame upwards then coming down like a black dog digging for nothing but the bones of people and parties gone past. She taught me that the stars are the gentle bass line to a musical played by all of us and that an alleyway is the best runway and a plastic glass of tossed ice cubes can stop the most fundamental movement. Claire Brewster taught me that a ship crossing the horizon is better than a distant night light dimming past the point of curiosity, maybe swallowed whole by oncoming storms of an undecided and tempestuous scene. Claire Brewster taught me something like that. She signed a magical sign across the sky like a visual broadband twisting its hair into a knot that knows nothing of times before, with their milky nights and ways. She taught me that a white space ahead of you is a something to crack a smile at and the center of the room is the only place to stand; that a story is a story and unsavory or not, it is a poem to be swallowed. She taught me not to fear my shadow or the beat inside that told me the time. Claire Brewster cradled flame when I still had no inclination or taste to attempt calculating the equation. She taught me that a story goes round and round and round until the sky swirls into a magnificent and feathered pen flowing gently southward to a star that never fades, never loses focus and knows that everything else is just child's play, trembling without the calibration of a rhythm that may or may not be achieved or conquered. But that will be years away and Claire Brewster is still teaching me how to describe a ship crossing the horizon.
S*
2004.01.30 03:02
Claire Brewster taught me how to describe a ship crossing the horizon and a sandy hand tossing a flame upwards then coming down like a black dog digging for nothing but the bones of people and parties gone past. She taught me that the stars are the gentle bass line to a musical played by all of us and that an alleyway is the best runway and a plastic glass of tossed ice cubes can stop the most fundamental movement. Claire Brewster taught me that a ship crossing the horizon is better than a distant night light dimming past the point of curiosity, maybe swallowed whole by oncoming storms of an undecided and tempestuous scene. Claire Brewster taught me something like that. She signed a magical sign across the sky like a visual broadband twisting its hair into a knot that knows nothing of times before, with their milky nights and ways. She taught me that a white space ahead of you is a something to crack a smile at and the center of the room is the only place to stand; that a story is a story and unsavory or not, it is a poem to be swallowed. She taught me not to fear my shadow or the beat inside that told me the time. Claire Brewster cradled flame when I still had no inclination or taste to attempt calculating the equation. She taught me that a story goes round and round and round until the sky swirls into a magnificent and feathered pen flowing gently southward to a star that never fades, never loses focus and knows that everything else is just child's play, trembling without the calibration of a rhythm that may or may not be achieved or conquered. But that will be years away and Claire Brewster is still teaching me how to describe a ship crossing the horizon.
S*
2004.01.30 03:02
