Thursday, November 10, 2016

The Interior Letterpress Museum

What is this then where we find ourselves bereft and unsure but not untended and - critically - not incapable of tending? The window is impossibly bright but then a bucolic New England landscape emerges: or is simply perception sharpening one way instead of another? The work is to love - and to save oneself for love - but everybody knows this. What remains when conviction passes? The morning passes wiping away mold from corners long unvisited, writing when chunks of time - usually twenty minutes or more - open up, and sorting through the interior letterpress museum formerly known as guilt and hurt and anger. Ruins abound but we are not bound to wreck ourselves all over again. Be the prism you have heretofore only collected. Insist - however brokenly, however miserly, however confusedly, however stutteringly - on the prerogatives of love. Which we cannot know absent the study of both justice and the Lord? Well, we who so long went without shoes now publicly decline to cut off our feet. We are not alone and our not-aloneness can no longer be fruitfully denied. I mean precisely this poor and largely unnoticed gathering, regardless of the god or gods invoked.

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