A Bureaucracy of One

One Moment of Perfect Beauty - The Mountain by Terje Sorgjerd

The Mountain from Terje Sorgjerd on Vimeo.

Shot from the top of Spain's El Tiede (12,188'). Go to the Vimeo link for more information.

Practically Perfect is not Perfectly Perfect

Practically Perfect is not Perfectly Perfect

Lavender Flames at Twilight

This is a loose translation of a dream I had a couple weeks ago. I meant to put it up sooner, but I've had a hard time coming up with a title. If you can think of one, let me know.

 

Standing on the back step overlooking the bay
You pointed out the rockets launching into the twilight sky
As we watched I saw two, then three, then four more
Burning for space

Caught in the majesty of the moment, the night's wine still on our lips
Your hand sought mine and we wondered at the spectacle
When simultaneously our eyes caught grey scale motion
Being chased by a pale flickering lavender flame

Muddle thoughts soaked in the night's activities struggled in my head
And as your grip tightened in mine we saw the missile split
And the warheads that had been cradled in its bosom leap for their freedom
Behind it, you mutely pointed, were three more
And yet still we watched, rooted in terrible wonder as death traced arcs against the ink of night

Icy dread presaged the realization that two of death's heads were heading our way
And with a terrible slowness I spun and pulled you for the door
As we felt the staccato pop of the bombs dispensing their payloads
My shirt, the one you had brought back from Mexico
Caught on the door frame, and time slowed further until it stopped

Then started again with the thundering roar of my heartbeat
And the ripping of the sleeve as it separated from the shoulder
You gasped at the blood that trickled from my arm, but I didn't care
I was panicked
Not at the thought that we wouldn't make it to cover
But because I thought my clumsiness might keep you from safety

Now past the damnable jamb that had stood vicious sentry against our entry
I whipped-cracked you past me and toward the door to the garage shelter
Using my mass to impart to you the precious momentum
Needed to carry you over salvation's threshold

Your scream of my name pierced me
As I threw myself under our kitchen table
The old oak had seen my grandmother's birth
My father's death
Our wedding feast
And now I hoped against hope
That its stout frame would withstand a little more

As the bombs started to roar.