Becoming Scandinavian:
A Stealth Fighter’s Existence on the Susquehanna Moors
1. Emily Dickinson never saw a moor but imagined it as wavy.
Do the math. Crystal blue persuasion, friendly persuasion. Suede.
Everybody was Kung Pao Chicken. And I was fighting stealth.
2. Coleridge & Southey, they imagined idling along the river banks.
Mike Banks dreamed of a intersection of gold, a laurel of silver.
Charles Dickens, Slim Pickens. Sesame oil, chili peppers, ginger, and
peat bogs, and/or beat boxes. Reet! Mike dreams a lot.
3. Norwegian wine and roses. Slow as molasses in January, each and
every year, Carlisle inches a little bit closer to the effervescent watercourse flowing gently to Chesapeake Bay.
4. Italian Lake, a short walk from the Susquehanna. A tranquil, brooding place with lush greenery and geese. Here I fed the ducks, I sketched the swans. Crossed the bridge. I hunted the alligator. I lusted for three nymphs still dancing in the middle of the lake. And I weep for the swans of my misspent youth.
5. Because of what I am becoming and all that weeping I vow to brood a bit
in a tranquil place near the long, crooked river and talk to other people in and around that space about the stuff just mentioned above. And maybe float a boat of two. I vow, therefore I yam!
Next up: Contemplating Spinach at Italian Lake. July 2011.
(note: actual spinach is not essential to an act of contemplation)
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