I have been listening to the words more than writing them down. I imagine the origins of the words–who spoke them first. Who sang them? Some fragments return, inspired by moving life–trees swaying in the wind.
Chills throughout the body on overcast ponds. The rains are here, disturbing sleep, falling on tin roof. There is an everlasting mist falling on forestlands and the winds are louder this almost winter. The crickets here are black–unlike the common brown found in cities that look and sound like home. The Black Cricket is silent. It refrains from leaping or singing. I sit quietly watching, waiting. It crawls along a kind of earth that is foreign–unlike the wet cold and yet warm embrace of the outside world.
Crickets are “good luck.” It is advised not to kill or chase a cricket away. Much like the grasshoper, this medicine is for the dreamer who has lost her sight. The cricket appears when the portal of the cyclone opens. Before the whirlwind can take her away, she follows the cricket into the electric jungle. Singing songs she knows by heart to lure the cricket to join her in song. This heart sings in lullaby. To soothe an ache–restless spirits take hold of the body. If you close your eyes you might hear them.
The black cricket may take refuge in the library. Camoflagued between Civil Disobediences and Zong! moving to the sound of machines producing cold air to preserve life. We do this to the body, passed. And charge for refrigeration. The lines of numbers haunt incessantly. I am waiting for the black body to emerge from the electric jungle. When the hum quiets, a new awareness begins to imagine the steps taken above.
Inside a new home we are continuously searching for our way to be–reinventing space and falling into repetition. These cycles reflect the passing storm, the light shinning through windows, warming the sky’s tears. The blackness moves into light–a shadow of the underworld–signaling time to tip the scales in balance.
The hum begins again. Blocking the sound above. Yet, we remember the sound. We sing the chorus and pretend we know the words.
apriLandbello 