In this mid November in Stockholm it's dark at six p.m.. I just walked through cold rain on cobblestones in the Old City with Madeleine. We talked spirits, poetry and history. Now I'm packing in my hotel room, listening to Miles Davis "Sketches of Spain". And as I did the first time I heard it in that crummy cinderblock housing in Iowa City, I flew from the center cord of my heart into the weather of heartache and beauty. The architects of mythic structures were gods, not humans. Again I ride out on a sword-like chord, with a battalion of warriors on horses through the dark, led by fire. I consider turning back but the current of the soul's destiny is stronger than any human will. Here in this legendary city, I find a royal theater, musicians, poets, actors, the sun, and though I go with Miles Davis into the heart of Spain in this faraway place, I go through a dense, excruciating moment the color of this northern sea at night, alone.
Posted by Joy Harjo at 7:17 AM