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Seeing Persia

2010-06-21 - 12:02 a.m.

I strolled by the marketplace of Diaryland. I remember it used to gleam with metallic shards and waxing ceramic figurines, catching the sunbursts of an early morning or the bosom of a dead lovely day. It's been a quiet place recently, but whenever I walked past I'd notice Sarah's place. She always had something new to share. She was an acquaintance. A lexical happenstance that occurred by some token event. I forget. I would smile or think. Always admire. I would think because her wares were not the zeitgeist, but the anti-tempo. The piquant train of notes against the melody or wall of noise that led you to a different path, on your 50th listening of a long known track. And it was on that road that I saw the erstwhile Baghdad of this place.

I knew, even so. The stalls had long since been abandoned, the city crumbled, naught but incense and vermilion hues, the ocher, and chrysanthemum cast to wind and sand while legend brewed tales increasingly exotic and misspoken. I had left for years, offering the most token signposts to dot back to a long history.

But Sarah was here. And she was a writer. And she was good. Really good. She pressed keys and emotion would come. That is the quintessence of what the fuck it means to be an artist.

I passed by her way, on the path to market. She's gone. This fills me with a subtle, soft sadness. It's the sort of remorse when a colleague or co-worker quits for a new prospect. There you are. Standing and wondering at all the times that came and never went.

She may have often said--always said, actually--that she was a silly argument. But I saw something worthwhile and good in her interactions with the community. We are all the worse off for her passing.

Hopefully she has moved on to a Bazaar in better keeping with her tomb-ly orchid aspirations. And she can begin anew.

Some day we all can.

Addendum: I feel compelled to write that Daath is a lodestone and a constant. The shoreline will fall into the ocean and the seas boil with enlightenment when I last leave this place. Or when Andrew flicks off the light-switch.

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