Artist Samy Charmine – Almost Time
“New roads, new ruts.” – Gilbert K. Chesterton
For the lack of a map, I took roads, some with steep inclines, most ended with no right of way, leaving me lost beyond timberline.
So many roads into Denver, so many anecdotes without fact. So many dreams left along the front range, gasping. They are a memorial, a delusion, inside, that’s not fact. Treasures at altitude, a once upon a time, a “Rock of Westies“, a vision above Nederland, a realization that 1975 is never, ever coming back. And maybe that’s a good thing, a very good, good thing. I think I can dig it now, “Portishead” driving me on this road, Beth Gibbons taking the wheel, right out of my hand away. Strange when I stare into my rearview mirror, I still see the mountains, shimmering above Boulder, some angel somewhere, whispers, “find”. Just another road, here, made up inside me. And I feel it takes me where I need to go. I know it takes me where I need to go.
So many roads into ageing, so many stories that still are to unwind. So many numbers numbing my mind, the physics of heaven, still these many, many ghosts aren’t changing any time. Driving, diamonds dancing on this road, in the summertime. High table, that’s still glowing now “Rocky Flats“, in nuclear time. That which is buried, still stays on my mind. And whispers, low tones, syllables that barely rhyme, still they encourage on this road, “seek and you will find”. “Seek and you will find”. On the road now, that which is with me, never that which is left behind. Going further then I need be, watching mountains left behind. And I wonder, as I wander, what it is that I will “find’, what it means to really unbind.
So few roads out of Denver, so many anecdotes without fact. The sun never sets above the “Mummy” Range, the snow never melts and that’s just a part of my mystical Colorado, that’s a part of these roads. A paradoxical fact. I suppose this might seem like nonsense, an ageing man rambling who has lost his tact. But there is something here, something shimmering on these worn roads, something well beyond 1975. For the lack of a map I free wheel, for the lack of knowledge I try. There might be a road that is headed for what I have to “Find”.
For the lack of a map, I took roads, some with steep inclines, most ended with no right of way, leaving me lost beyond timberline. – 08.11.2019- דָנִיֵּאל