Tuesday, June 28, 2022

The Manger We Cannot Quite Believe is Empty

Walking further than one expects or even needs but still.

Choice is an illusion, it may or may not be helpful to see how this is so, your call.

Dreams from which I wake but do not know I have awakened.

Roses growing wild beneath the maple tree I cannot bring myself to topple but must, and soon.

For too long I let nobody tell me what to do, I thought this was strength but it was just more effortful chaos, mis-directed penance, intellectual confusion, et cetera.

Stuff I don't say but from time to time think: Peter Buck is an under-rated guitarist, the Grateful Dead fed bad demons who are still with us, air-conditioning has hurt more than helped our species, humans going extinct isn't a crisis, and we should all be more grateful for oceans.  

Learning how to hide our tracks.

In tangled night grass, moonlight.

Lies we tell about sex, myths we share about sex, and then sex itself, our bodies remembering what they really want to discover in one another.

Let us grow silent together, let us insist on no prerogative, let us undo the personal, let us see what happens when together we consent to be a site of only love.

Somewhere is a winter field in which I stand alone, the four horizons moving further and further away with each breath.

Before bed I walk south down Main Street to the swamp off Flat Iron Road and listen to frogs, lost in ways I thought by now would have passed but which have not passed, only intensified.

Letting go of everything, including letting go.

Who wants to be satisfied?

My God, this fear of the other, is there no end to it?

Oh Sarah Hrdy a thousand times thank you.

Giving head to the pleromatic self until my tongue falls out, a stone. 

Life in the stable, the manger we cannot quite believe is empty after all this time, money and effort. 

We construct identities, could easily construct others, others construct others, can we agree on this at least.

Suddenly this willingness to sustain complexity, even confusion, as if doing so were the art by which the cosmos reveals itself in all its wondrousness and glory. 

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