Forget the luminous. Forget the early bird. Forget the early, the false dawn. These are the cracks in the night where the light comes in. These are the tossing waves and the dreams of sleepless leviathans.
Words I found on my lips upon waking:
“Do you know what it would look like,this portentousness, this guild of lost flowers?”
A passage that struck me later in the day while reading “Living with the Devil” by Stephen Batchelor:
“The stuff of which we are made, that allows the possibility of consciousness, love, and freedom, will also destroy us, wiping out that poignant identity of a sensitive creature with an unrepeatable history, who has become a question for itself.”
A thought that interrupted the copying of this quote:
“I pause in my struggle over the placement of a comma,
the exact site of a break in the clause,
because the silences matter as much as the noise.”
And later a quote found by chance while looking in the wrong place for a different, particular quote by Paul Valery:
“It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.”
— Stephane Mallarme
Strange to see the path these thoughts, these silences traced through the day and each other, each pointing forward and backward as the empty moment in time passed through them.
I am making myself write, at this moment. I am making myself right, at this moment. I am making my self, right at this moment.
[thank you mark, for getting me to pull this one out of the archives] [...a fragment of a piece that is trying to make itself...] [...the rite way wround...]
Even where there is no current there is convection. Even in a fountain gone to scum, the damsel dies but the frog thrives.
None of us
as we think we are;
more or less.