Sunday, July 10, 2016

Beyond What is Given

Rain all night leading to a now-unfamiliar early waking. Mourning doves flutter around the feeder, lovelily interruptions of the light. It's not clear anymore that one can get to it in language, nor lead anyone to it with language, and so why not write a detective novel, why not just be a whore for the Democrats? The barn won't build itself but in another sense it will. Facing the pig question one is brought back to their childhood, all those dead animals that couldn't be saved, which led in turn to a lot of animals killed that could have been saved. These hands, these hands. Near the hilltop, mist, yet at the base - where the river flows - only the deep green of clustered maples. Rain in July can't kiss away my guilt. Fatigue appears first in the eyes, then sort of slips down the back into the body proper, a sing-songy plea for rest, dream or no dream. The deed there is but no doer thereof, yet in all honesty is that how it seems? Husserl eschews metaphysical drama, one reason I am still working through him, asking what happens when one no longer insists it be about God or magic or getting anything at all beyond what is given. The loveless envelope, the Darwinian miracle, the blessed collective. When I write, I am not lost, yet when I am read, I crumble, slip into a dense psychological web, complexity abounds, tangles, and one longs only for the silence they keep breaking despite, apparently, knowing better. Or not, who knows, not I. One is a new man on the second floor, full of hope, less wordy than before. Not without birches, not in my name, not anymore.

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