'How I have wished for you
how I wish for you today.'
The moment when all was possible, flashing like the silver across the room, the golden eastern morning light glinting into your classroom, ancient and open, lying the way a god would place it, the same way it's been for years, the old light on your back the same as it was on some other soul, many years ago.
There was a long road in the long road, a hidden vein to our lives, unknown, thin as a grey word that you found abandoned on the roadside. "It's okay, you don't have to talk".
~~~
The death of a fly...
A fly rests dead on my windowsill. What of it. A plump raisin fly that will not be raised, that had no colour when alive, no gloss to his being, no myriad eyes, no rainbow, oil-spill film over its body. And now in death it has curled up, as if in some final act of resistance. There is no grave, no mourning or mourners. A death alone like every other experienced by his species you imagine. We share so much material with the fly,says the scientist/mystic. All our circumstances altered by a simple moment of forgetfulness. A fly is a fly and cannot escape this metaphysical fact either.
how I wish for you today.'
The moment when all was possible, flashing like the silver across the room, the golden eastern morning light glinting into your classroom, ancient and open, lying the way a god would place it, the same way it's been for years, the old light on your back the same as it was on some other soul, many years ago.
There was a long road in the long road, a hidden vein to our lives, unknown, thin as a grey word that you found abandoned on the roadside. "It's okay, you don't have to talk".
~~~
The death of a fly...
A fly rests dead on my windowsill. What of it. A plump raisin fly that will not be raised, that had no colour when alive, no gloss to his being, no myriad eyes, no rainbow, oil-spill film over its body. And now in death it has curled up, as if in some final act of resistance. There is no grave, no mourning or mourners. A death alone like every other experienced by his species you imagine. We share so much material with the fly,says the scientist/mystic. All our circumstances altered by a simple moment of forgetfulness. A fly is a fly and cannot escape this metaphysical fact either.
There is no "individual" fly, no fly with some rogue, expansive character.
Each fly is like the other, living in this weird association, a life lived in mirrors, near windows, the old sun on its back.The tribal affinity of flies-without the extremism.
This fly-your fly- is so silent, like the last word.
This fly-your fly- is so silent, like the last word.
Leave a window open and they will always make for the light, aim to be lifted on the currents of the wind straight out of the room. Without the fly there is no summer.
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