Is it time to move on? I have been here a long time waiting on a certain signal fire, and all there is is darkness.
I like women who can talk a long time between kisses. I remember reading Gertrude Stein for the first time and becoming instantly celibate, a state of ecstatic deprivation that lasted almost three years.
Altars. Chord changes the song calls for but for which you do not long.
Nothing to hold onto really. The mushrooms were sacramental but also leveling, humbling even.
If you don't turn the lights on, and you know to call what happens "darkness," is there not at least one light on? My sweet Lord!
Leaving even the ancestors behind. Smoking cigarettes outside seven-elevens in Holyoke, sad in a way I would not be able to articulate for another twenty years.
Where the hill crests in Windsor and you can see the Adirondacks in bright sunlight. As the Buddha said, "the illusion of self originates and manifests itself in cleaving to things."
It must be intentional, it must be active. If we do not know the spirit then we cannot know Christ.
She writes every week or so, a happy-sounding letter in which it is clear she sees the fundamental crisis clearer than I do. Oh we are getting somewhere now aren't we.
Stumbling at alleluia. I don't want to live the way I lived, I want to talk about peace and forgiveness, I want to be happy, naturally and seriously, like I was before snakes and language and dead baby cows.
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