on beautiful things

tigran, a fable

if, one day, i die and leave my young children behind, it will be my testament that they are played this before they go to sleep as a lullaby. and so that they will grow up to be the kind of people that believe in things like the presence of those who are gone, that there are other worlds where you meet them. the kind of children who will believe in their mother in the clouds, sweeping stardust and la la loo-ing them always. who believe in the pertinence of baying dogs, of whining and howling animals, people who understand the secret logic of cacophony and crying babies, the perfection in disorder, people who understand about clutter and decision and the awkwardness of their own faces

all the stupid, useless, futile, childish essential things that i believe in, too, when i think about other people's fingers on piano keys and patterns made by dead birds fallen out of the sky in thousands somewhere in arkansas, and the old man who plays the saw forever on pacific street with a flower in his lapel

about dandelions before dandyism
and raw beets, sliced and the red water they make in the sink
about neighbor cats
and the fidelity of dogs, regretting only their inability to hug (but for arms!)
about good documentaries
and the prescience of fiction
about broken heaters
and wool socks
and pay phones
and the lions at trafalgar square, guarding their one-armed hero
and johnny tremain, the romans and fortune
and islands, to visit but not to live

and delirium, above all