Saturday, June 18, 2016

Defined by the Insterstice

A green world in which one doesn't have to learn to see yellow but does, naturally. Oh look, those daisies appear to be thinking things over, like mothers sending their children off to war. Hunger of any stripe will make you do strange things. Unrecognizable, even to myself! Let us imagine that one hundred thousand years of walking has bred into the human form a certain rhythm which emerges in certain complex musical forms to which dance is a natural response. Instant coffee in the back room in a house one couldn't have imagined, and yet helped imagine, literally from forest to this exercise right here. The trails are not unfamiliar yet one walks them less often, given now to labor, given now to relationship. How I long to see the New England ocean of two hundred years ago, the tall ships and their rifling sails, schools of cod so thick you could walk on their backs to Provincetown. A pilgrim inclination in which religion is no longer the obvious component. A trio of bass guitars, an unused drum set, brass wind instruments in a pile under the window, and wall hangings that made me wonder if a proffer of homegrown was in the works. In the distance, one perceives the foothills of the Adirondacks, and beyond that - in a hazy penumbra defined by the interstice of knowledge and possibility - taller mountains yet on which climbers routinely die. But not Husserl, never Husserl. Come with me to the river and let us see what we can see. The old bench no longer bears us ably, yet we decline to throw it away, being romantics and prone to nostalgia. There's always another picnic up ahead. J. said as we rounded the dingle "those butterflies know something we don't" and I replied "Christ, a slug knows more than we do," which was yet another example of my social ineptitude, dickishness really, especially while walking and tracking my own thoughts to the point where I forget the collective is never not in attendance, never not aiming at coherence. Well, silence isn't all it's cracked up to be, nor is sex, but a good loaf of bread rarely disappoints. Let me throw something together and see what happens, okay? Maybe the bluets aren't gone after all. Maybe there's some jam in the back of the cupboard.

No comments:

Post a Comment