In that great journey of the stars through space About the mighty, all-directing Sun, The pallid, faithful Moon, has been the one Companion of the Earth. Her tender face, Pale with the swift, keen purpose of that race, Which at Time’s natal hour was first begun, Shines ever on her lover as they run And lights his orbit with her silvery smile.
Sometimes such passionate love doth in her rise, Down from her beaten path she softly slips, And with her mantle veils the Sun’s bold eyes, Then in the gloaming finds her lover’s lips. While far and near the men our world call wise See only that the Sun is in eclipse.
Of course it was a disaster. The unbearable, dearest secret has always been a disaster. The danger when we try to leave. Going over and over afterward what we should have done instead of what we did. But for those short times we seemed to be alive. Misled, misused, lied to and cheated, certainly. Still, for that little while, we visited our possible life.
In the very early morning Long before Dawn time I lay down in the paddock And listened to the cold song of the grass. Between my fingers the green blades, And the green blades pressed against my body. “Who is she leaning so heavily upon me?” Sang the grass. “Why does she weep on my bosom, Mingling her tears with the tears of my mystic lover? Foolish little earth child! It is not yet time. One day I shall open my bosom And you shall slip in—but not weeping. Then in the early morning Long before Dawn time Your lover will lie in the paddock. Between his fingers the green blades And the green blades pressed against his body . . . My song shall not sound cold to him In my deep wave he will find the wave of your hair In my strong sweet perfume, the perfume of your kisses. Long and long he will lie there . . . Laughing—not weeping.”
To be able to walk along and see the fierce green sun the meadow grass the tall gently bobbing weeds then to take a walk inside yourself and see trees tall as Tom Thumb It’s always raining here It never rains I’m strolling among the shadows of everyone I’ve ever loved But this morning I was flying with the birds Not knowing like the map there was a destination But it was fun Like making love on Tuesday instead of our customary Sunday afternoon I’ve learned to suffocate death and continue doing so all day
For Lefebvre, ‘moments’ are intense experiences in which everyday life is suspended and possibilities for authenticity, creativity or transcendence are opened up. These moments – whether aesthetic, amorous or revolutionary – reveal the potential richness of existence, both individual and collective. This approach seeks to break with the reproduction of relations of domination.
