Monday, July 11, 2016


Sitting quietly doing nothing is something. One begins to sense the way in which inattention is more radical, broaching as it does the always ungraspable essence of the whole. A dead fawn on Route Nine pleases nobody, yet at the same time we are always surprised by the presence of chicory. The lawn mower's high-pitched growl, blue jays singing while helping themselves to the raspberries. One enters the hayloft with certain intentions - to pray, to write, to sit in the darkness and do nothing at all - and is abruptly shocked to discover the bliss - that is the word - of inattention. From whence do the peonies come when one has not thought about them in many days? A dead fawn on Route Nine, its guts laid out across the macadam like blood-soaked rope. In which grief is not a sea but a shock, not what lingers but what strikes you, what passes but remains as the potential to be hurt again. Seeing through the Buddha, the way sunlight is what lights the world, even when the sun is hidden by clouds. Mind has no home, its home is its drift, and what but inattention makes this clear? The stranger wears so many faces, including that of our lovers, including that of our grandmothers, including that in the mirror. Oh how happy I am to see at last there are neither mistakes nor consequences, neither subjects nor objects, trails nor no-trails, and no bodies to share the way. Abandon pronouns ye who wish to enter here! The gift of tongues, indeed.

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