Symphony No. 9 in D Major, Op. 125, she strings beads.
Tonight she feels nice. She could wear something nice. She might even eat. Storm, somewhere, flood, somewhere closer, and just behind her ear is a recurring gust of wind, cold.
This room was meant for reading but then she pushed the walls aside.
She sits, her chair just on the edge, her feet dangling off the side of her chair which is dangling off the side of the house, leaning forward, tilting.
First she drops her beads. One bead at a time, disappearance until irrelevance, crushed glass in the grass somewhere, slouched colour palette hidden in the weeds somewhere, gone, gone and given by her plummet, her head bowing forward, she somersaults, the cold air hiccups.
I sleep through falling, I think.
Sometimes I picture gravity behind me. Ahead of me is everything else. That’s how I sleep.
Tilting out of the chair, I could still save myself by tucking my body towards the floor, the chair slips out from under me as I topple over and I insist my head inward, into the house, facing gravity.
Here’s the conflict. Everything in the universe insists that she needs to fall, there’s no other way, she knocked down the walls, she sat at the edge, she watched her beads smash against the Earth, what did she think was going to happen.
I know there is no overcoming floorboards and strong winds, she knows that too.
Gravity is the pressure, every time.
This week, look for the weight around you.
Lighten up when you can.
If you’re tilted on an edge, assert pressure where needed.
Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, Op. 125, ends with circles of wind and heavy down beats of water pressure pressure pressure slurping, it amounts, it comes together, it happens and I swear there is relief when the leaves raise their eyebrows and smile at their branches and fucking sway and drip. And they fall.
Beethoven woke up every day. That’s all I know about him. He wrote falls. He wrote falls. He wrote gravity.
As always, so can you. As always, you’re falling. Keep falling. Keep running. Goodnight.