Breathing

As the snow came down in a mist, we talked about Henry James and his Olympian ways. Professor mentioned that James had a certain fetish for sitting atop a throne, and watching the characters he created mash each other up, sweetly and brutishly. All the while I was thinking 'damn, that sounds good.' I'd love to sit on a hilltop, or swing from the sky, a martini in hand, watching the world from above. Disenchanted. I imagined myself in the spring, legs dangling from high high above, watching the boys and girls, friends of mine, strolling around holding ribbons attached to ghosts. These would be ghosts of their particular imaginations: teaching assistants and lovers and dysfunctional grandparents. The ghosts would smile serenely, never breathing in the sweet air, but rather just moving lazily where their masters took them. And then, suddenly, I would toss down a pair of golden scissors, and let someone cut their ghost free. Up up the ghost would soar, breathing suddenly, and into my face. Why does my mind go to these places? I wish I knew. I've been staying up, listening to the moaning winds, and searching for books and pictures and images to make life fuller. Maybe I should just let my bed pull me down, like a heavy weight, down into the fresh snow. It might be nice to just lie there, among the white powder, waiting for the ghost to speak.