The thoughts come galloping, cypress trees quake in their wake. Vincent Van Gogh had a thing for cypress trees, and I dreamed I was a cypress once. My mask lifted for maximum vision, but risky. My sword raised high, my antenna, I’m searching for a new (radio) station. I am free in the wind but armored. Ideas blaze and gleam like silver light and I’m off and running, full speed ahead, a Head, hanging on tightly to the reins, my toes pointed and curled around these stirrups. I am open wide; I am fastly furious. My horse flies too, attuned to my urgency. My horse is how I move–clouds jagged as my sword rips through the air–thunderhooved. But it’s the passion that drives me on, that spurs me–a bright red, bloodred silkribbon of vitality. A cloak thin and responsive as membranes.
Vincent Van Gogh and cypress trees. Mind as healer, mind as slayer. Choose? Birds circling, wheeling. Wheedling. Needling. I am crackled-up energy. I am speed of thought and razor-sharp articulation. I am commitment and my mind in service to a grander plan than the day-to-day bandits of bread and sleep. Quicksilver, Mercury, Trickster, Gemini. Changing form midair, blurring boundaries. Clouds form and disperse, form and disperse. What moves through air is fleet-footed, light on its toes.
The realm of air welcomes me, yet I cling silkily to fire-ringed water. Air means flying. To fly is to gain perspective. Movement and flight and air so cold my brain crystallizes. Icicles and raindrops sizzle on my tongue.