Nearly a decade ago it had risen in my imagination, speaking of the future and the absolution of the past. Then, the flood of years had taken the silt with the sand, mist had taken madness, and its voice and face had become hasty levees. Today of all ordinary days it came back to me, almost a beloved before all was lost. The cycle turns in untrammeled ferocity.
There is little justice in such randomness that sutures self and self in neat periodicity.
After the elation at time and death, there is great desire just to lay down these arms and let life slip by again, to ease past the forked roads, to succumb to a serendipitous alchemy of rightness. To inhabit a young idealistic voice that believes in the symmetry of sequences and ratios, that sees their beauty and argues that if we could unlock their meaning we would know the underlying meaning of reality.
We name beauty, such symmetry, according to the functions it appears alongside. That is, such beauty must contain a meaning beyond itself. In its ability to mesmerize the viewer with its own absolute perfection it must have the ability to indicate a principle or truth (a bit) larger than its own existence. The old alchemist’s temptation.
Wherein I see in that bit of deviation a life-force distinct and fulsome as an example of something far beyond its limits–a principle. Wherein I envision a ‘rightness,’ a justness and perfection in the moment and sufficiency in its future dimension. But there it stops, for the hope is always retrospective.
I shall not lose this song again, and yet the wheel will turn. Along its vast rim I cannot see a road.
In Greek mythology, Mnemosyne and Lemosyne, remembering and forgetting, are equals requiring each other (Edward Casey 1987; in _Memory_ by Anne Whitehead).