Danke

Another day, another bomb. It's getting closer.

Given such mindlessness (perhaps 'thoughtlessness' would be better- if it didn't imply casualness) to continue working in the ivory tower, continue living in the 'green zone' seems slightly unreal. Perhaps one should give thanks that one's loved ones and friends were not injured. But this, too, seems out of place. Our first thoughts...how easily we utter these words when so much depends on putting first things first...Should one say that any real thinking depends on another, on not being "full of oneself"?

All one can say, rather pessimistically, is that America, Israel, Pakistan and the terrorists have not learnt that you cannot bomb people out of existence.

Watching the old Sherlock Holmes last night. Holmes, ageless, invincible, unchanging ran the credits. As the song says, our survival, documented in the Bible.



So today I realise one should only give thanks for what one's heart has the capacity for...

Today I received the packages, brown paper ones (my favourite..string would have been perfect) and others lovingly wrapped in golden paper. (How superficial is that, I hear you say! But there are many things to love in the world! )

These come to me from my supply lines from another world, a distant star that I once knew. I do not doubt this other place exists-it overflows with being. This other place is memory, desire. Familiar, unknown. Distant, far. In love what use distinctions?

The books are fab. I'm speechless. Solar generosity said the miserable bastard. Bronk, Sebald, Solnit, Strauss, Ponge. Whether I read them or not they are there, like an assurance, something to block out what some people mistakenly call the real world.

And the music too: Cohen [what's got into you dougal old bean, you were such a happy child:) ]
Richter, Adagios (no Gould, though). As with all gifts, one realises one's own radical insufficiency to accept them with an open hand. One is left wanting (in the right sense of the word).

But perhaps more delightful than anything (is the drawing of distinctions a sign of being ungrateful..nothing could be further from our thoughts!) were the photos of the swami blazing away in her red outfit, C's promise of a coffee at Euston (bagels too, I hope), the Dougal scrawling my name. And now my heart becomes sad; what else is a gift (or art) but a reminder of our separation? You are there, and I am still here...

I look to the Red Man to understand religion. For even when the heart contracts to a point there is still a space that is given to us, that allows us-if only we knew-how to breathe again, and for this we are thankful...

The great sea
Has sent me adrift
It moves me
As the weed in a great river
Earth and the great weather
Move me
Have carried me away
And move me inwardly with joy.