The possible existence of a radical school of ancient Chinese poetry was recently brought to my attention. The idea is that even when poetry is reduced to imagistic references, and in ancient China this would typically be in regards to nature, applying words or symbols causes what David Hinton calls a “breach between consciousness and landscape". So a revisionist style emerged in an attempt to transcend this metaphysical disconnect.
There once was a boy with an insatiable thirst. Polydipsia, as it's known, had encumbered him for as long as he could remember. When he was an infant, a suckling session would physically deflate his mother, leaving her exhausted and delirious for hours afterwards. And his kindergarten peers would taunt him mercilessly while he spent minor eternities at the drinking fountain. “Leave some for the fish!” they would yell, pelting him with spitballs as they impatiently awaited their turn.
As an occasional victim of the snack attack, my wife asked if we could make a stop for a frozen treat on our ride home from the river. She disappeared into the convenience store while I minded our bikes, my face towards the evening sun, my heart dreaming of faraway lands. After a few moments, a throaty inquiry startled me from my springtide reverie.
Impromptu dance parties are a lesser known but essential aspect of Metrovino. Some of you have witnessed these unfolding, while others have innocently walked into a session—perhaps it's a customary theme of wine shops everywhere. For us, the propensity to break out into spontaneous dance has endured for many years, even transcending comprehensive transitions in employee rosters. It must be something about the building.
