Sight-Seeing on Lysithea

© 2010 David Parker

For the past few days, thoughts have been popping in my head like Christmas ornaments: delicate implosions that crunch underfoot. Their tiny shards have embedded themselves in the folds of my brain, glittering like secrets. I’ve been opportunity’s call girl, chauffeured around my own town. See! Look! There! The world around me has graciously collapsed, and is now speeding, tumbling towards a fate of my own making. A fate I brewed from melted stars, metal birds, and horizons devoured by the fiery mouths of setting suns.

So this is what it feels like, doing what you love? Like you have a secret moon in your mouth? Like the world is hugging you while you walk around inside of it? Like listening, on repeat, to the liquid sound of your favorite person’s voice and the laughter that shatters it?

Like when you realize that your favorite person’s voice belongs to you.



The beers we opened with the handle of a hairbrush. Parked the car in that part of the field that was shaped like a cupped hand you’d drink water from. Rolled down the windows, set the camera on a tri-pod and listened to the soft shutting of the shutter every certain small passage of time. The sun setting that day was unremarkable in real time, but, upon being captured, that setting sun became something else, became art.

And isn’t that the job of the artist, the job of the writer, the job of the people who make plain things beautiful? To take a bland-at-best falling of the night sky and unrealize it: make it magic, make it new. To make yourself nostalgic for something you never really saw. To re-live the thing as you would in a dream.