impossible to be silent kkkkkkkkkkkkkk impossible to speak
ritual of light holds memory of darkness
in itself and we, kkkkkkkwe cling to darkness.
~
stillness in the house, delight still
ascent and descent still possible, labour of precision
the crows' thick wings pass overhead; life in-
tensified, held now
as albatross wings are a part of the wind.
---John Riley.
~~
A house, not very well built, in the stream of the world. The structure of our lives like a house of cards, as chance would have it. Today there are a few pale watery high clouds but the morning sky remains bright and open. Yet despite all this there is the distant sound of thunder, the slow rumbling, some old god's ancient anger, reaching us now, as if from another universe.
There are moments when life becomes transparent. You view it from a distance, like a painting. You're not moved by it, but nor do you judge it. It represents no order of any kind, but there is a kind of patient stillness that allows you to see this, a mind free from too much anxiety. A narrow vision, concentrated on a few details, the learning not to care. What else do you see, remember?
'The old steps live only in me.'
---Denise.
How much else will fade under the sun's gold, burn or simply peel away? The winter mind struggling on, in the heart of so much brightness. Winter: gathering, collecting, storing up. It will amount to nothing, but you've stopped counting anyway. You have no thought of the heart's spring, its final emergence into the green. Pull the clothes over you, find what warmth there is, the muslim 'la' around your neck. The storms of heat, the desert light. Thoughtlessness, Walser said. Pay attention now!
ritual of light holds memory of darkness
in itself and we, kkkkkkkwe cling to darkness.
~
stillness in the house, delight still
ascent and descent still possible, labour of precision
the crows' thick wings pass overhead; life in-
tensified, held now
as albatross wings are a part of the wind.
---John Riley.
~~
A house, not very well built, in the stream of the world. The structure of our lives like a house of cards, as chance would have it. Today there are a few pale watery high clouds but the morning sky remains bright and open. Yet despite all this there is the distant sound of thunder, the slow rumbling, some old god's ancient anger, reaching us now, as if from another universe.
There are moments when life becomes transparent. You view it from a distance, like a painting. You're not moved by it, but nor do you judge it. It represents no order of any kind, but there is a kind of patient stillness that allows you to see this, a mind free from too much anxiety. A narrow vision, concentrated on a few details, the learning not to care. What else do you see, remember?
'The old steps live only in me.'
---Denise.
How much else will fade under the sun's gold, burn or simply peel away? The winter mind struggling on, in the heart of so much brightness. Winter: gathering, collecting, storing up. It will amount to nothing, but you've stopped counting anyway. You have no thought of the heart's spring, its final emergence into the green. Pull the clothes over you, find what warmth there is, the muslim 'la' around your neck. The storms of heat, the desert light. Thoughtlessness, Walser said. Pay attention now!
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