A gunshot sounded in Brooklyn, beneath the monolith of freeway shining through the dust in a rising August heat. The angels from their roosts rose to the call and took to the heavens, convening flocks for a stormy, symphonic moment in the industrial afterthought now postmodern haven of the glass apple, a figurine of a city so driven by immediacy in its mad dealings as to appear, and merely then to be, quite natural.
These angels, elegant wisps of passion, and for this moment pupils of materialism, danced scattered, daring lines through the temporary ruins of a free market, broaching irrationally circular motions beneath that suspended monument of linear thought, the freeway standing tall. Endlessly smooth in their moments of grace, terribly brief in their moments of falling from. Freedom does not exist in the marketplace, but it does in dust storms.
Like lions of percept savoring viciously these short moments as pupils, as rather than those endless stretches of pawning, and indulging the imaginary immediacy as a higher plane of consciousness, in harmonic opposition to the linear ethic echoing from the concrete, they lunged, leaped, bound. Smoke filled the air, carved the skyline, as rounds of guns blazed into the setting sun, the flocks of crowd stifled in the clouds yet vibrating in a collective consciousness.
Swift feet galloping on the film of sooty air as if untouchable, without boundaries, as if the angels themselves were nothing more than a feast of ineffable concept. Pure and empty they dusted the symbolism as if life after death were here and now, material. Mind over matter incarnate. The angels the conquistadors of the mind/body gap in real moments. Wielding blades these martial dancers convened this august day, skating dark, chaotic etchings, in raw immediacy, the imaginary point, into the linear ethic aforementioned.
And we the people listened to the scraping, the howling of the dust of moments wherein angels take flight. Scatter to the streets. Love is in the air in this New York City heat. Ciao ciao!
Please see The Apple Juice on the Philosophie tab of this site for a book of poetry regarding this manner of rollerblading. Enjoy!
Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com
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