WEBVTT

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This one's called "Night
of the Marigolds."

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During the pandemic, I was
playing a pretty great window

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box game, and a lot of
marigolds and a lot of petunias,

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and you know what
petunias do at night,

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that fragrance is so beautiful.

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Can you grow petunias here?

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Is that asking a lot?

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Yeah, they can-- they can
they manage get to work, yeah.

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It's called "Night
of the Marigolds."

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Look how the marigolds
in the darkness

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catch the lamplight from
inside the apartment

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and bounce it back
to us, warning

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that we come to be known by
the way we respond to what we

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suffer, which is to say by
what we have suffered and not

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by what we are.

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In Delacroix's painting of a
horse frightened by a storm,

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the animal summarizes
thunderclouds lit by lightning

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more than horse, unless
there's something

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essential to the horse
that's unrecognizable as such

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until provoked by force.

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There have been times I've
wondered about myself,

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not knowing what it was compared
to what it might have been

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or what it isn't,
tumbling it over

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in my mouth like raw stone.

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After a long night of it, if I
take the stone out of my mouth,

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what surprises me
isn't how smooth it

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is because I expected
it to be smooth,

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but the fact that I
have either tumbled--

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troubled it into the
shape of a horse,

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or else sucked
away the not-horse

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that kept it from becoming
the object it has always

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meant to be,

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Now we are riding
into the night.

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Marigolds towering over us
drop their scent in waves.

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Our breathing slows--
the horse and I

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are in complete communication.

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The matter of what
we mean embeds us

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like a warm Egyptian loam.

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There's no disputing it.

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