Saturday, May 28, 2016
We Go There Almost Nightly
New meditation exercise: watch the garden grow. Or so the bougainvillea suggests, the wild blackberries, the iris. Capitalization intrudes on the sentence generally, somewhat like broken window frames removed from a house. What are we looking at and why does naming it matter so? These are interesting questions! And one meditates a long time walking along the river, thinking things over, in no rush to conclude, content to see - and be perhaps - the flow. What did John Lennon say? Once again I fail at purchasing new shoes and so C. comes with me and under a veneer of efficiency and inside jokes we yet again work out certain painful aspects of my childhood. Shod at last! On the other hand, that calf grave and those bones - oh Christ all those bones - isn't going to write itself. Does the unknown actually exist or does "unknown" sufficiently cover it, for now? The slope of pasture troubles me, and so we go there almost nightly to look it over, always at dusk or just after, as if what we are actually looking at doesn't matter, only working out what we think, which we only see when we say it. "And how do you feel about that" my first therapist asked, when I was eighteen and always ready to run and always ready to fight if I couldn't run and I answered "like knocking a few teeth out of your head you smug fuck" and he smiled and that was the first time I understood forgiveness might be possible and whatever follows forgiveness and it was, it was, oh Jesus it was. And now what? Well, now you among other things. There are wool socks on the writing desk, business cards that haven't been rifled through in years and a dull paring knife. Husserl hides in the ruins so stop avoiding the interior wrecking ball. Let me go suggests Jesus and in response I write an essay about how there is neither one to do the letting go nor any thing to let go of. That. But not always that. Not anymore anyway. And in the meantime, this.