Places my reading takes me where I don't want to go but must, for now. Playing non-zero-sum games now. The blind horse politely raising his hoof to be trimmed. Spring sunlight, always a promise.
One goes slowly through the piety of Thérèse, comes to her clarity around kenosis, and wishes - not for the last time - that some other form of dialogue were possible. We are attracted to Luciferians, no other way to say it. Pan fried fish with chips, all of us eating on the front porch, laughing. A dream in which neighbors pass with open beers, stop to say hi, hey did you hear about Dick Thayer, et cetera, that happiness and ease.
Wherever I go next, pray they have coffee. Azaleas everywhere. One mows down the bluets - one goes headlong into grief - knowing the cosmos is fundamentally regenerative. There is only this: this this.
And yet. One leans into the monastic impulse, one finds the rosary is a fine lantern for the various darks that attend. Halfway through turning over the new garden we come to a clutch of stones, excavate them one by one, and find beneath them bones, hence a cairn over a pet but deep in the earth so at least the nineteenth century. All the stuff they try to sell me, all the emptinesses that can never be filled.
Sister cannabis, brother psilocybin? I remember making love in truck beds, hasty and unsure, but happy after, in a loose and flowy way, holding hands on our backs looking up at the stars. Encouraging the wasp to take another path to its nest. I must have solved some problem for my dreams now are all of gardens through which butterflies float singing songs of praise and joy.
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