Wednesday, June 1, 2016

A Vigorous and Productive Waltz

We admire farms, which is a way of stirring memory and interpreting ancestral desire, but also somehow bridging what we can't - never could really - put into words. L. suggests a scythe and we talk it over but there's not much to say, you're either ready to live that way or you aren't. One wants to be rational now, just say what it is, and let it all be what it is, and yet the Romantic mode still beckons, Wordsworth cloud-gazing and puffing up with the Lord, Dickinson verging on orgasm every time the muse came through her window after dusk. The garden catches up, or fills up, a hearty loveliness we submit to gladly, and we fall to sleep hours apart yet by dawn are entangled, and this is one way the world is, and this just happens to be how we are presently married in it. The inclination to compose lists fades - faded - as there is now a sense of being carried, of being the servant (weak metaphor - fix it for me, will you?), and what's next is always right in front of you waiting. Talking about it is complex because talk - and understanding talk - communication, I mean - is complex but it - this it - is not complex at all, it's merely what is. Wholly what is? Ever since the lights went on I can't sleep! Or rather, sleep better than ever, but many of the old appetites have dissolved, as if their only function was to distract and not help, so what awakening is is just this, this this, but salted with awareness, a sort of acceptance of what is, without troubling to understand or extend it (it naturally shares itself), a sort of happy "oh!" Look at the sinew, the space between each sentence - I am saying, as an exercise, a writerly one - can you feel or intuit where the writer paused in what is otherwise a more or less consistent wall of text? Or notice where you pause and wonder are they same pause and if so why and if not why not? A bland cup of warm milk at bedtime, a long swim days earlier that still haunts my shoulders. Let us gather as a flock, let us congregate around a shared belief system or - is now not the time - let us simply allow the collective to find us, make use of us, et cetera. A dance without music yet not silent, a vigorous and productive waltz insisting on no prerogative. Writing is posterior to speech, in which sense all this wordiness is a sort of foam, or gloss, where one is given to the river (an only slightly better metaphor but I'm out of time, buddy). Given to moonlight, to that waning crescent visible over your shoulder while planting cucumber? Oh maybe: Oh maybe not: Oh.

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