tmbt: glass half full just yet
Glass half-full and nearly empty, there is always a presence in the bottom. Amber, you said, and for me a sort of lime wash of rum and sugar tonight. And beauty is in the beholding of these songs from the speakers and the sweet tart bounty on these lips, crooked only in the off-guard, vulnerable moments. You said Once was for us, and I took stock. I took stock of every doubt and wonder, every memory pushed and reached for again and again in the maturing mind of a cynical Venus. Boy is one and girl is another, but together, the glass brims over, yes? Brims with questions answered and asked anew. There is no answer for the bottom, though. Reached and we will be done with. Or is it reached, and we will be started?
When was the last time you said, “Ah, but I have at least half of this drink yet to savor!”? Half a life is but the same and tonight I am reminded of words sung in Icelandic accents, left hanging in the want of something different, something real, something found only at the bottom of the last half.
I have everything laid out as anyone would wish it to be. Job, shelving, couch, piano, flat screen televevision, high-set bed, human feline, fast car, fast talking career. But it fills only half of my cup – and tonight, half is not enough. It is not the right half. Or perhaps the glass chosen is blown of the wrong breath. There is a wish behind every song, every swallow. And this wish in the bottom of the glass, of the chest, of the life lived in embrace of the beckoning half-way, is to be done with it all. For a bit. For ever. For my own heart beating in the liquor still left floating in lime and sugar, cane and sidewalk.
The poetry, pagan and risky, moon-worshipping and gilded with the future, is but a lily drooping in the rain and sun. And this glass tips to water every last possibility. Half full, it brims the top of every last question, thirsty and bright with the possibility of more, or just different, or both. And so many other hemispheres await. There is a most beautiful thing floating in the bottom of the world, in the bottom of this glass.
Photo by Cate Scott.