Monday, August 15, 2022

Desire for the River

How we are in a sense the other's world. A path one follows to a clearing in which one lays down and waits on their lover to find them, no matter how many lifetimes it takes.

Peanut shells in the compost. Imagine two thousand years ago setting out on the sea, being committed to going beyond the sight of land.

A crow on the fallen apple limb I am sculpting into a resting place for corvids, thanks brother. Absolutely leave a note.

Reckoning with what we put off reckoning with. A map on which emptiness figures prominently.

Studying the drafts, never leaving the drafts, writing is rewriting, and you is passing, never to return. Being is plural, stop kidding yourself.

The sky shapes the way we think, at night the sky is full of stars that shape and guide the way we think. The Man Without Shoes has a thing for rocks, has anybody noticed, and has anybody noticed that this youngest daughter did too.

Far away in the forest, the sound of a tree falling. Oh beautiful lichen may I not forget our shared history.

He mentions Gaia and you can feel certain women in the room rise up to kill him. Coffee-flavored kisses.

What is a crisis, what is good work. I spend a long time gazing at the letter - under glass - that Sylvia Plath wrote, just grateful she existed, wondering what she thought of Emily Dickinson (herself encased at that juncture in a kind of glass) - wishing there was a way that so much of what hurts us didn't have to hurt us.

There is no foundation so stop anticipating, stop seeking, stop carrying on! And yet - even now - this desire for the river prevails. 

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