the lost man chronicles
the daily chronicle
at 5:30 i looked up and thought "framazing" (frickin' amazing). there were but two dozen bright stars, a half-Moon, and clouds magically lit as they quietly passed beneath Her.
the accompanying euphony on my moonlit walk to the bus stop provided a pleasant soundtrack: the rustling trees, the wind-chimed breeze (ting-a-ling, ding-a-ding), the soothing silence of no one around, and other sibilant signs that this town was slowly waking up.
my mind lingered in awe of what i first saw when emerging from shelter. it was a slightly somber admiration though, because i had once seen a rather mind-blowing starlit sky as a teen, and i shall never forget it.
we were camping on the outskirts of Yosemite, far away from any intervening city glare, and there, but a long stretch away, was an array of stars like i had never seen before—and one i have never witnessed since.
that evening a few thousand must have been made visible to me; it was like an evening-look eastward across the Hudson, a midnight purview of Frisco from the East Bay, or the panoramic view of the valley from the hills of LA, at just past twilight.
so many lights! except these were entire suns sending some sunshine from more than a few million miles ago.
back then i didn't yet know the word to describe the reverent feeling, for i likely had yet to utter my first "fuck," but now i know—framazing.
(little dream: a little ice-cream shop owner is inspired after reading this chronicle to rename her favorite flavor, or better yet, a new flavor she has personally created "framazing"—framzin' choco-lot, framzing indulgence, framazing frozen bliss, framzing super-double-chunk whatever. )
I love the prose that blazes its joy and its rapture like stars above me, that lights glowing suns of love, that carries me over the thin ice of its disdain, through the rough black nights of its hatred, that clangs down upon me the green, copper voice of its irony and its laughter.
If you would please me, then stretch over my head a rainbow of language in which I shall see red anger raging, blue gladness rejoicing and yellow mockery laughing.
Take me up and carry me where you will: I crave for nothing more than to be powerless against the power of your Word.
~ Of Prose, Lodewijk van Deijssel
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