What of silence? Not shy, just quiet. You would speak of the things I see, maybe. I have experienced perfect bliss. It was a hammock, an arching flock of birds, a blue sky encircling a round world. “Dig a Pony” humming in my ears, and the trees outlined in silver vapors, emanating an overwhelming beauty; I lived for hours in orgasm. Sunshine, the Beatles swayed me in unison breath to the rock of the earth. Perfect bliss is harmony. But I dare not speak of it; it’s my secret. Not only my secret, but we dare not speak of it. We know too-good-to-be-true when we see it. Don’t we? But I know other things, other things to say. How’s the weather? The wind combs my eyelashes like lovers’ breath and God shines warmth, light on cheeks blessed by the aftertouch of a gentle hand. If I allow myself to speak so honestly. You don’t understand? Neither do I, generally. Trivial irrelevancies invade the commune like aphids on the wisteria outback. I will not be an aphid. Rather would I watch vague patterns on otherwise blank faces, playing games with which I have yet to accustom myself. I would love to monologue in front of you. However, the imposing silence (which is stillness, you know) calls to me, my mother in this inviting world. I won’t pass her by, with all she calls. But I would love to sit down for coffee sometime. Friday, you say? Well, never mind that. We can speak later.
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