In my head, always, minor chords, clouds, crucifixes. My first lesson on the low D whistle was, sit for an hour with your whistle giving attention to breath and "don't fucking play it." Mist softens something in me by drawing the relevant horizons closer. Smell of rain on asphalt, oh.
How deeply we go when we go together. I felt myself dissolving, discovering a vivid thread in a swirling block universe, a single spark of light traveling nowhere through nothing, happily. Insight is a distraction, self-awareness is a distraction. Oh luminous ocean pouring through the sockets of my skull, may your salty exultation seed our broken earth.
My mother is the strongest and most difficult person I know, the light in her so bright at times there is nothing but light, and the darkness at other times making you forget about light altogether. Something shifts when you begin living from the altar that is within you and from which you cannot be separate. Is it all a question of translation then? Ruts on the side of the driveway Chrisoula asks will I fix.
The early chapters of A Course in Miracles emphasize its nature as a work in progress, which shifts the nature of the relationship. Suddenly all these cats. Who taught you what death was, who taught you how to bury the dead, who said what at what juncture that allowed you to consider that the church, so called, was lying to you. Notes by hand.
A lifetime of writing poems on the margin of a life in which being a poet was a secret, always by necessity, though the terms and conditions did change over time. Going to Bronson Brook, sampling the Ganges, leaving an apple for Abhishiktananda or a black bear, whoever visits first. Her halo which I cannot bear to remove, though everything else comes off in time. Is this fiction, it feels like fiction.
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