In mid-January, the weather briefly slips its icy shroud and a thousand borders (which are distinctions) appear - melting snow against not-melting snow, green grass on brown, green grass against white snow, quartz visible here, schist over there.
The world is always in a state of spilling, or shifting appearances, or so it seems to the observer. The one is here for whom all this beauty is given is here?
For an hour or so I walk around with a camera taking pictures, as if memorialize something, or capture something. Or am I still just trying to understand how I should be so blessed?
Gefter suggests all this is what the inside of nothing looks like, but that implies yet another boundary, and I'm past countenancing what isn't here to countenance.
Oh, how I wish I were not still the man who always says "I love you but . . ."
On Sunday morning when we're out of flour and butter I drive to the Creamery to buy flour and butter. The store (I wrote "story" in the first draft) is mostly empty but full of sunlight and somebody has Neil Young on. Sometimes when I was confused it was a way of opening a space for the other to go deeper into their own confusion, whatever they wanted to call it. I mean, you can't not love.
One tends to divide the day with beverages. The prayer of the first cup of coffee which eventually slips into writing. The writing of the second cup of coffee, which eventually slips into reading. The first cup of tea - which is generally a decision not to drink a third cup of coffee - and the blander editing and rewriting and sketching plans for the next day's work, which must be done. After that, homemade kombucha with cinnamon, ginger and stevia, and the usual half-assed attempts to improvise manhood in a crumbling empire in a late stage of capitalism (basically managing the horror by clutching certain Romantic ideals).
The desire to express oneself in a certain form (like that idiot in New England with his sentences, paragraphs and essays) is a fine way to begin but it can't last any more than you can remain at the wedding forever and pretend it's a marriage. You have to let what wants to spill, spill, and you have to be okay with what cannot be derived from distinctions. If not you, beloved, then who?
Here, in the twentieth sentence, I get down on my knees and beg.
Post a Comment