At midnight the dog asks to go out and I follow her with cold tea, drag a chair to the maple trees. No stars, no moon. Saturday will dawn rainy but for now a faint mist pushes up from the pond, visible when cars drone by on Route 112. Something is happening, something is giving way.
More and more I turn to the old ways of doing things: bread in the dutch oven, an axe on the trails, candles by which to write. I am struggling now to say it in a way that is helpful, knowing as I do that what we say is not - not really - needed anymore. I can't get past Molina's similarity to Neil Young, which feels imitative (my interest is in the limit he hit, a mystery the other side of which he never found). Ecclesiastes a kind of navel as the uroboric fantasy is never entirely ended.
Conviction of any kind is problematic (though I am mostly thinking spiritually), as wordiness is too but differently. In the dark, I can't say what color my coat is but I know what color it is, see? Putting up peppers and apples we talk about what we didn't do in our twenties, which is a comfort of some kind, though precisely how escapes me. She is part of the epistolary impulse, which is part of the impulse to define, both of which I am - as yet - still working through.
A sort of silence beckons, a sort of singing. I never know what is next but language always takes me there and never leaves me bereft. What a comfort to know that our bodies know how to die! And kissing, too, is a kind of fulcrum, a way of delineating the edges of perception.
Boredom has always been a problem, the only real fixes for which have been writing and hard work outdoors. You go further and further and think this must be it, this is where it ends, but no, there is always another turn ahead. Collecting anything (quartz, say) is simply a way of slowing down what naturally rushes, what naturally functions as a kind of limitless envelope. I mean, once you write "unmappable" you've mapped it, and so what - what - did you really mean to say?
unmappable is a problem of perception, not landscapeReplyDelete
I mean the cartography of thought
you can't say it's unmappable until you see it
and when you see it you are there
you mapped it
are we talking about willingness then
are we talking about fear
for years I masqueraded in eloquence
my foolishness hidden
how useless that project,
keeping love from love
like trying to push the western wind
how tired I am
that I do not know the way to you
What is the way?ReplyDelete
What do you want to see? (Build it if you must!!!)
In what forms do you wish to experience joy?
What does your Heart truly desire?
At least, this is what I ask myself....ReplyDelete
I was a child when I said yesReplyDelete
and the angel pressed
her thumb against me
leaving the mark
of those bound to go wordy
through the wordless dark
the way to truth is litteredReplyDelete
with the work of those
who faced with dark
begged for light
I eat the only lamp
God gave me, singing bread
to the hungry after every bite
Dear poet messenger,ReplyDelete
thank you for Bread in your Words
for your Body of Light
We would die form fear
if there weren't for the comfort
of those who said
ps. Be gentle with yourself, take care of your lamp, you give so much of yourself. A mark is for Life and also beyond Life, and it changes as we change, a form changes in which Love gives through... A mark is a gift remembered:) Love, Z*
Thank you for doubling backReplyDelete
when I was lonesome
Perhaps the way is not
a path at all
but those through whom
a light extends
who remember when we don't
A Kind and Limitless EnvelopeReplyDelete
is always Doubling
back forward and beyond