Ask me for the shape of things and I shall pick you up a pebble. Let the wind answer for me. This bit of hair, this dust of skin. After the communiqués, I shall take courage and be wrong.
Ask after the old and the new and I will find you some soil, my sandbox to play in, some knitting, there will be no albums. Money, photographs, leaves, they all fall slowly. I cherished them once. And I will tell you of the span of ten fingers, all dreams and air, and the desperate need for record-keeping.
Allow me to see what I need to see in you.
Some day this will return as a reminder of the ideals that are required of us.
It is not she but the wind that keens, wandering, probing, unearthing, looking for things it has lost. Looking for the truth it dusts away the loose soil, all that is not tied down in the world, making canyons out of friendships and wind-pebbles out of dalliances. And finds that those other things are also gone–—love, close companionship, trust, faith in human nature, some justice perhaps. It grieves intensely for them. In summer it is lulled, diverted, tired. But come the winter it rises up in a madness of grief. And because these are not things it can ‘get over’ it remains in mourning. The loss of one thing, one life becomes prolonged, enlarged into the loss of much that is human, much that is natural. Its geography of sadness.
And then one day he exulted, for he had found out the secret of love. It did not lie in requitement, nor in desire, merely in direction. It did not matter what he had, nor what he wouldn’t have, nor even that she would never know him. He knew, and it was enough. He had found what to work and live for. He was healed, he was open again.
You measure my weight in terms of clarity, so that you may set me in contexts you deem appropriate. You come expecting a limpid bit of prose to give you access to meaning, perhaps even me. Have you broken these words open yet?
Every thing takes on the characteristics of its making. The impressions of materials, moments, masters.
We are what we have been. In this sense at least, our position is not Janus-like between past and future, but human, facing all the past we reconstruct and the future we spy over the shoulder of God.
There is nothing ‘new’ nor ‘pure,’ only that which we think has not been touched yet in this world, that which we hold aloft above this ship of fools.
‘There is no death. There is only, I am dying.‘
There is no finality in experience. There is only the frozen urn, beloved image, and the invisible sex of what is and what is not.
The “insurmountable distance towards the self” [Helmuth Plessner, 1948]. In an age when we organize our relations in epistemic counterpart to our single-point perspective on space.
Yes, we yearn. And everything happens between ourselves and ourselves. Honor, codes, chivalry, seeking, healing with the love of another, all for a restoration of the self. Is all unity self-love, then?
And is that our redemption?