Rage, Rage against the Breaking of the Day

by totalcontrivance

Rage, Rage against the Breaking of the Day (Barcelona; August 22 2012)

I do not know what time it is, but I sit outside on the terrace with a glass of cold water, munching on honeyed and puffed wheat. My eyes sting from sleep that was perhaps too little. Not too long before I fell asleep I made some vague and grandiose statement to the effect of
I think time is now fucking with me.

The sky was darker a minute ago. It must have been the blue-black of midnight hours ago; now it is softer, showing its vulnerability. It hides the stars, offering its sympathy, extending the olive branch to the few restless and overheated ghosts who might look up, not to be confronted, tonight, with their own minuteness, insignificance–which is always reflected back to us in the ironic steadfastness of those burning balls of fury–but rather with a pastel and velvet sheen.
There now! It is beginning to light itself from within! How does it do that?
I have company in the sounds of the flamingos and the wildcat–jaguar?–who live in the Parc de la Ciutadella across the street. The trees are like conductors, carrying the contemplative murmuring of the animals up and out, to be dispersed throughout the city.

Two bikes spin past, hissing.
Hum, oh Tram, and continue on your way.

Only with the breaking of the day, of tomorrow which is now very much today, the day I will go to Paris, do I feel any cooler.
But the mosquitoes are assholes. Be gone! Can’t you see you’re ruining this for me?
No nos importa, they buzz obnoxiously (these mosquitoes speak Spanish), tu sangre es buenisima.
Now a few clouds streak across the sky, one resting on top of the golden horse that caps the trees in the park.

And if we raged, raged against the dying of the light, just as he told us to, and just as we did, justly, with intensity, shouldn’t we now venerate this light that comes again? It has been a slow return, with many a dark hour in which to contemplate the presence-in-absence of the divine and the mythological.
But have we not been lit upon again?