sidebrow

from A House on a Hill



(3.1)



You were overwhelmed, in a way. I was stuck, you see. You were, in a word. You were, however, only a little nuisance. I was too long dead. I stared out a car window. I fought back my only real reason for being. You were damage, and there was damage in the quiet, and there was damage in the night, but you were delighted. I could have imagined something. But this was possession, and the way you used me, the way you haunted me, was quite extraordinary. The question turned to, concerned itself with, what you were hanging onto. You became a house, a real bargain, and I might not have been able to take much more.


You hit me. You could have hit me. I could have cried. And when you reach what you want to reach, when you reach a deep need, a crisis, a house on a hill, you hurt yourself. You are hurt, and there is no turning back. I was at home. The house was big, and you never hurt me. I might have wanted to look. I could have looked. I swear I could have looked up and saw something flying. You were cracking walnuts and deciding your own fate. You were sitting, somehow, almost covering the house from top to bottom. I knew the place. I had been there before. And you could have hurt me if you’d wanted to. You were so hurt.



I became deeply indebted to confusion. You were on my mind, and that hurt me also. I will never see myself again. Alas, you could have hurt me. I could have fallen asleep. I could have become someone with tremendous powers. You really hated me. And I felt your hatred from miles away. You were a power in the sky that could have come, that might have come, if you’d wanted to, but only if you’d really wanted to. You were wearing a hat, walking across a road. You lived on a street. You were there. You were always there to be regarded, to be inflamed. A house on a hill, and there was home, and I was home. And I was there once, and I was intelligent, and you were born.


In a house on a hill. There is a house on a hill. And the house is beautiful. You are hurt when you look at the house. You are hurt. You are just hurting and hurting, and then you look at the house. You are in the house. You didn’t know what to do. You didn’t know what to imagine, but you were there. You were on a high-road, or in a rest home, or on a square horse. You were eating somewhere, and you could not slow down. You were kept where you were by fear. You lived on a street. Oh, so you lived on a street? I had to know what to do. I had to know what to do at all times. I had to be the one, the type, to get ahead. There was no doubt, and then I looked at my hands and realized that I was more or less inadequate.


There was something false in the way you looked at me. You looked at me, and I fell on my face. You were in a building, but there were too many people in the building. And I could never have gone to that place alone. I just couldn’t have. You wouldn’t have done me any good. You sat on a fence and twiddled your thumbs. You were neither here nor there. You live in a city, and the city is just, well, the city is just as far as you can see. You have nowhere to go. There is no place that will accept you. You are deserted. You are always deserted because there are too many people around. To varying degrees, and in various ways, you must wonder why the world is the way it is. You were forcing yourself to agree. You sat at the head of the table. There was spirit there, in the place.



(3.2)



You were unwinding in the house on a hill, except you had no house. You really didn’t have much of anything. You were unwinding in the house on the hill, and there was a definite change in the air. The air was different in the house. You were wild. You knew all the best ways in and out of the room. You were wild and you were specially charged with a lot of things to do. You had to hold your head up. You were the way you liked to be. You wanted what you wanted. You lived in a city by the sea. You made a lot of sense when you walked out to the beach to observe the waves. You were doing what you liked to do. You felt bad about your situation. You were filled with trouble and danger, but you loved to laugh. You laughed a lot and you didn’t hate anything. You took a photograph from the mantle. You held it in your hands. You were falling, or a picture was falling. You were standing still by the mantle. I was in the room at the time. You were making me mad. I was truly angry at you. During winter, the house was cold. You looked beautiful in the middle of the winter, but there had to be some reason for the way you were feeling. You were feeling dumb and you were feeling tired and you had nowhere to go. Amid disaster, and you had nowhere to go. There was a feeling in the house. I was in the house at the time, in a room, and I was looking at you, simply looking at you. Without a doubt, you were afraid. There was a little bit of fear in the house. You had your doubts. There was no getting around the fact that you had your doubts. You sat in the room and looked about and thought and thought, but the process would have been more worthwhile if you’d given it half a chance. I wouldn’t disappear that easily. You wouldn’t have to let me go. You wanted to get out of the house. You wanted to do something fun. But you would miss the train that way. You were sure you were going to miss the train, so you got up and walked out of the room. You were having a bad time. But you were happy. You looked fine. Your hair was great. You possessed a kind of self-image, if such a thing were, in fact, possible. Then you thought about ways to live, or about a square horse in a meadow, or about something, some kind of picture of something. There was something in all of your thoughts that could have turned you around, if only you’d wanted what I wanted you to be.



There was a fair amount of passion that controlled you. You gave yourself a haircut. This was something you were good at. You were at the beginning of things, or so it seemed. You had a house on a hill to return to. So you packed your bags and went away. Over the hill and through the woods you traveled, and then there was the whole question of your returning. You weren’t sure whether or not you would return. You faced the question. You walked the dog. You were the only one you’d give a haircut to, a good haircut, and you lived in a house on a hill. You were something special. You had become something special, and then you were busy. You were in the house when the telephone rang. And circumstances were unusual, however, I was unusual. And, then, at that moment, you made a little movement with your foot, and then one with your hand. You held yourself up to the highest possible standards. This was a fine day, or you were in a real predicament. You found yourself back outside. You were late that night, or you got back to the house late at night. It was late one night when you came back. Wherever you were. You didn’t tell me where you were or what you were doing. You were looking at stars through a telescope. For sure you were looking at stars through a telescope, and I knew that.


You found out a little too late. I was on a ledge, and I was waiting for something in particular. You’d had a long day. I was waiting. I couldn’t quite figure out how to get out of the situation I was in. The situation was better for you. And you are very humble. You are good and humble, and kind. There is really not much to say about you other than that. If you lived the way you lived for a reason, then you would have stopped. You had never lived that way before. The time had come for you to stop trying so hard. There was a bit of mud in your lungs, fluid in your lungs, and the world would just have to live with that. And you could have been an end, or more than an end, if that’s what you’d chosen to be.