23 March, 2010


Being a creature of the night is to be off, by a slim matter of hours, a drop in the grand-scheme bucket, but forever off. I am (at the least) never quite fully in gear when the functioning world is engaged, and remain espresso-fueled to keep up. My switch to on-ness is incremental, predictable. As evening deepens into something that seems a bit more permanent, there is always this: the smooth pressing down of the foot on the accelerator of my being. If you know what I am getting at, perhaps now is a time to stand, take one step forward and carefully enunciate who you are. My name is...and I am a night-owl.

The house exhales at night, and so do I.

- Billy Collins

Now it is time to say what you have to say.
The room is quiet.
The whirring fan has been unplugged,
and the girl who was tapping
a pencil on her desktop has been removed.

So tell us what is on your mind.
We want to hear the sound of your foliage,
the unraveling of your tool kit,
your songs of loneliness,
songs of hurt.

The trains are motionless on the tracks,
the ships at rest in the harbor.
The dogs are cocking their heads
and the gods are peering down from their balloons.
The town is hushed,

and everyone here has a copy.
So tell us about your parents--
your father behind the steering wheel,
your cruel mother at the sink.
Let's hear about all the clouds you saw, all the trees.

Read the poem you brought with you tonight.
The ocean has stopped sloshing around,
and even Beethoven
is sitting up in his deathbed,
his cold hearing-horn inserted in one ear.

Goldfrapp, performing "A&E" live in 2008.

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