High hills. So far away from
everything. How could the spirit of the hill and cemetery network in an urban
city? Ultimately the eternal and the timely, the vertical and horizontal lines
and dimensions as it were, must mix and mingle, integrate and then live, bring
down the light to the world. But not then. Not now. The angel sits frozen, -
watching, pensive of spirit. How could it ride a bus, a money raising campaign,
or the wave of ambition? No, the angel is kind, not ambitious. Don’t they see
that the world is, well, worldly? This is where the gnosis is, - on the hill,
with the angel, and the late summer dreams of the blue sky clouds migrating but
slowly, slowly. A little road meanders there, if it could be called a road.
Flowers, watering cans, trellis. Names mark the stones like Robinson, Miller, and
Henderson. They walked and lived and put the cooking pot on the stove at seven
o’clock, at twelve o’clock, at five o clock. Meal time is over now, - for them.
They are the food for the soil and worms. The way of things. High hills and
certain decay under the verdant clean summits. But it’s better than the decay
of pride and ambition in the cities. High hills. So far away from everything.
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