Wednesday, May 28, 2014

I Dreamed Again

Gray morning and uncharacteristic cold. One imagines uniforms of the nineteenth century and certain stones on the Irish coast. There are coffin ships on every sea and hearts slowly failing in their function as bellows. All fall but down is not a direction, not anymore.

Adirondack spelled wrong (without the requisite c). Do you remember our long drives through southern Vermont, afternoons given to coffee, bread and cheese? One studies the feathers of dead guinea hens and despairs of understanding anything, anything at all. A single bead of blood at the hinge of the fox's jaw is seven years later still beautiful, still arresting.

A bluet cannot take you further than you are willing to go, and that is all one needs to know about the so-called spiritual journey. Happiness is not minding what happens. I dreamed again of the last apartment in Burlington - books, a futon and a zafu, and no money, and mornings given to walking beside the lake, distracted as always by beauty. Noodles with hot sauce, hot tea, and chunks of dark chocolate after, sprinkled with cinnamon and lime.

So many differences come down to semantics! A cultural obsession with preciousness? We define ourselves negatively, don't we. I remember our first meeting with a realtor all those years ago and the disappointment it foreshadowed and how even now I insist on rendering the last lesson dim, opaque and evasive.

Stan Getz records remain cherished though the requisite turn table has long since stopped working. The tendency to perceive ourselves as pronouns obscures a richer inheritance. Your knitting pacifies me, as if gesticulating in the direction of a door. My love, my teacher, what guest shall we welcome next?

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