You
The Aesthetic Issue
On the inside of the swallow’s nest it rains an awful green
And outside is too cold to explore
The walls light up like catacombs
And in the centre there is a fig tree
I stand under this tree under no spell
And wait hopefully for a shred of ecstasy
But no fig falls
No flaking of the floraling foreshadow
Not a dried up prune no seed
Not a sight for your eyes to see
Instead there is a silence
There is a deafening quiet
There is a taker and there is a giver
And in that empty space you sleep
How to make crepes
Measure the flour, approximately the weight that’s been left on your heart
Mix in the dry ingredients, the ones that say “lost and forgotten”
Try pouring in the water, but not too fast or you’ll risk it becoming a slurry of everything, which makes it nothing
Add the milk too, and looking back at you is the painful image of yourself, as you play the act of draining everything from a vessel
A bit of melted butter makes it less bland, something you can’t understand
Crack the eggs, feel them in your palms, notice the weight of the world crashing down on their thin skin, heavier and heavier until you can’t stand to hold it anymore and they crack…
It’s enough. You can leave the mixture on the counter beside a pile of places, people, and things which you call “never done”
The weight of the world whooshes by. It passes every second of every day. The impossibility of it all.
I took a train to Mexico and the ticket vendor asked for my age. I don’t look 30, but I sure as hell don’t look 12. But I took the ticket anyway, and that’s why I’m here.
I’ve seen a lot in my life but always through a window. I have a friend named Dan who likes to go watch birds and stuff. Now, I used to say that that was ridiculous but, more and more I wonder if Dan is on the other side of that window. And maybe I’ve ignored the dreams of who I deemed common men for too long.
I’m travelling to Mexico to see the warm smoke off my .47, wouldn’t be the first but I sure hope it’s the last. Maybe I’ll buy another ticket when I’m done, go to Arizona or some wayward state and see what wheat feels like to the touch. Maybe even see a bird or two. I’m a solitary man and I think it’s too late to change that. Maybe 20 years ago, but now the smoke approaches over the trees and I let it take me.
- Ethan Mileski, there and back again