faith_in_a_starry_night lycanthrope The night swirls, stars emanate, and hang in hard histories poses, as if off of strings, a panorama- and a thick wooden squirming to become darkness- quits at the stars, is the first steeple- as the second...smooth finessed deep blue like the sky, reconciles the garish embrace of thorns, and the near and far lights, reflected, dying, shot blindly off away, creating dark blue chasms and pale yellow legions, lesions, rendering the sky and marking a small collection of houses and people creaking in their dreams as a village. Each light is more than it was for the darkness, each sound echoes infinitely for the silence. Many houses are closed under the stars, under a boiling moon which is not still but froths and tumults and then stays intensely- it is the houses which are still. even those with lights left on- this house, that house, a late dinner, a family talks of where they stand; a son eats his meal in silence, another family drinks wine and laughs; a girl looks concertedly inconspiciously away from the laughter from time to time, with a besieged smile, to a house that can only be around the corner. The sky with its stars all in order compassionately give the thick cloudy appearance of narrative the answer to prayers- Two lovers seated under stars and steeple are receptacles of a clinched balmy night and its cool floating wind. They exchange a familiar now heightened knowing invitation- she whispers, smiling sadly- "it wounds my heart with monotonous langour" and he closes his eyes sublimely and his senses return alive to everything. There is mourning at the fringes of other hills. And in the house farthest from the steeple, a decidedly young man dances with his daughter to an old song he sings- repeating over and over airily the one word she knows, requests to have sung again and again, sings to herself, clings to, when she is awake. But she is sleeping now, he is careful not to wake her, not to wake the entire village. And he is weeping and spinning, spinning less and less, her head on his shoulder, his hand on her hair. And he must go to war soon. His wife walks in, and he is slowly embarassed. She has never seen him cry, and never will again. The sky rolls over in a swell and cloisters and encloses them, erasing mountains and families far away. And then a moment of respite and finally stillness, in the moon. The scene is not provincial France- it is a meager village in Vietnam in the late sixties. Van Gogh didn't know that. It didn't matter. The music played, and he painted, just as the stars shone. 020912 ... stork daddy this painting is far too popular. 020912 ... jane the_wind_blew_the_stars_away 021006 ... falling_alone lost in chaos brightly shining 040303 ... brain stew you have taken away the already tremulous scaffolding that held our future together. and yet my eyelashes flutter shut under your cheek. there are stars above the volleyball flying across the net, from under the treeleaves i can see stars. this is goodbye and yet- your arm is around my shoulder, your warmth warms me, your chest rises with mine. and they say this is life. 040304 ... p2 i remain faithless and starless 040304 what's it to you? who go blather from