Thursday, February 3, 2022

A Stranger in this House

What if nothing is meant to be ephemeral? Ice flowers, love letters. The afternoon goes before us always. Perhaps it doesn't matter that there's no time left to understand - even a little - what Deleuze was saying about folds. Spring is coming any day now or so my various lovers promise.

When you are broken and you know you are broken, wholeness will be the professed ideal, but as you bear down on wholeness, you will find yourself oddly drawn to self-destruction, and this too reflects the law of Love. Every therapist's waiting room in which I've ever sat has included both ferns and a silent Medusa. Must you? August Salzmann's 1850 photograph outside Jerusalem of the road to Beith-Lehem. Exactly what is a boundary anyway?

There is only one gaze, the realization of which ends most of our so-called troubles. One works fast in order to keep time to their self and only near the end of time understands the error. Putting the emphasis on green in honor of my deceased father. Well, we are not separate from what we perceive, nor from perceiving, but we still breathe. The whole project is a cosmic ellipse.

You are staring at yourself pretending what you see is a stranger. In this house we hold hands before dinner and pray. West-facing windows blossom in winter with delicate ferns and other paleolithic flora that continue to move one in the direction of finding ever subtler modes of communication. How else should I organize the twenty sentences? Emphasis on guest, continuity, knowledge vs. perception et cetera. 

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