I do adore the architecture of old churches. The sharp edges and points that reach up far into the clouds and seemingly stab violently at the sky. Almost like nails hammered in from below the earth. I imagine that if the heaven’s were to ever slowly try to drift down to earth, all the countless churches of the world – with thier towering sharp steeples – would almost be similar to a bed of nails. To send them recoiling back into the clouds from whence they came. And how suitable that would be, for there are few things farther from God than a church
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I can hear the grumbling of a train and feel the low vibrations as it passes by about a block up from the cafe where I’m sitting eating lunch. This place is a little more soothing then back home. The air is softer. Theres a lot of animals here. Thats a good sign. Swans. Any place that has swans can’t be so bad.
The train growls from up the street and shakes the cafe floor. It feels like my father’s old pizza shop. I never really understood why, but I suppose my parents left a few bad memories at that shop, because no one ever talked about it. But it was definitely there once. Shaking. No one speaks a word of that place in 20 years. Maybe I should ask mother, but I’d be afraid that it might make her start to shake. My uncle shook his whole life. My brother shook when he was over seas. My sister shakes each night shes left alone. The cafe shakes around me.
Theres more ambiance here. I suppose thats why I crave this place. The architecture of the historic homes sitting behind telephone lines makes it look like sheet music to me in a way. Theres so many churches but they all sit quiet and let me focus on trying to read the sheet music of the old homes along the lake. I let the pedals of my bike wind the entire city up like my mother’s music box as I leave and I feel loose bricks slip under my tires. When I stop peddling – if I ever stop – the music of over 100 years would begin to play softly for me as I follow along reading each note from the telephone wires along the horizon.
She looks better on this bike. Her dress slips up her soft thighs in the wind as she pedals and she gets embarrassed. My heart races. My loose ribs slip around in my chest like the old bricks under my tires. She warns me about swans and llamas and not going to the bathroom when I need to. If she was here she wouldn’t let me get close to the swans to take pictures like I am now. She wouldnt let me shake. She would fumble around and try to hold her dress down over her thighs while riding my bike. She would make my ribs jostle back and forth like old bricks as she rides my bike over my chest. Fumbling to pull her dress down to cover her thighs as my heart grumbles behind my loose brick ribcage and quakes the entire city like the train next to my fathers old pizza shop. But we will never talk about that.
An Introduction To Terrible Things.... 