Thursday, August 12, 2021
And then there is the unexpected sun. We are basically texts unto one another, black boxes, yellowing pages decorated with ink blown off the table under billowing curtains, breezes that smell of the sea. Who is writing! Learning is learning is how to reasonably find your way through social contexts masquerading as a body in a world. I remember the first time I heard the phrase "second generation ACIM student," wondering not for the first time what thieves and grifters I'd fallen in with. The poems you don't write stay inside you and make you claustrophobic, prone to visiting psychics, an aggressive kisser, etc. It was quiet all morning, you could hear the sunlight streaming through maple trees and settling on ferns. Ways in which sex reframes how we think about family. Are we not all meditating on the crucifixion, are we not all passively reenacting Mary Magdalene's confusion in the garden? I feel everything warm and welcome at a distance but close up I get confused, come off as cold, almost - what is the word - oh right, distant. Or maybe things do go wrong in absolute ways - is that possible too? This language I am learning, it makes me into a sentence that doesn't want to be the last sentence, or this one.
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