The Heart is an Organ of Fire
“We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves.
I wish for all this to be marked on by body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography - to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience.”
― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient
Sojourning in New Mexico, I became consumed with the song of the desert, and the way the heat has of pulling your heart into its fiery depths against the diamond dusklight of the setting sun. Long stretches of boundarilessness revealing all. The lone call of a howling wolf, strange bird shadows floating across the pale tan roads. Days of quiet reverie, and nights of dreaming - watching the sun blaze and then fall in every imaginable color - apricot honey dripping down a violet sky. Wrapped in a shawl, gazing out into its beautiful oblivion. Solitude, but not. A lover's murmur calling from somewhere, closer to home.