'The sight at any moment
is as complete as the human heart is.'
---K. Irby?
In the mirror of our lives words are lost in translation. Over time the silver inherits the black. In winter we sit around fires, our bewilderment increasing by the day. Hands bear the true sense of loss..
We grow into the image we have of ourselves, Iris said, meaning picture, meaning not the word.
'I mean: we are human. Human is not
to be something we know, but to be as the Jews say God
must be, without an image. What happens takes no
care for how we look, what part we take,
or whether we can. Something there is will be.
Caress me, be kind. We have no history.'
A word in translation is the thing: the strangeness that lives on in our heart is like a tune we recognize by the first notes, but whose words we have forgotten.
The sawmi said time is not the same. By which she meant: you enter another room, walk to another floor, and still have no picture of the house. Denise wrote: a gold ring is lost in the house-and even if you don't search for it, you know it's there.
A mirror bordered by wood is a world within a world, a world of one-off sentences, of two-dimensional experience, an icon of black and gold..we see through a glass darkly.
We walk, like ghosts in the sunlight, out of time. The sympathy of a random gaze your way draws you out of your reverie.
It is futile to look for the self that doesn't change while all its properties and relationships do so.
Avoid mirrors, reflections. Your list of books 'to read', your lives 'to live', grows longer and more improbable with each passing year. You find yourself where you are. When the mirror has nothing left to say, then are we free? The fantasy of distance..was this any different from the fantasy of nearness?
The intoxication of images and mirrors: to see and be seen-in the right light, or at an angle to the universe, your fall in the direction you're leaning.
The fractured image, restored in the mirror to wholeness, albeit momentarily, like a word recalled or held on to, a memory of former times..
(words by Bronk and Blackburn)
is as complete as the human heart is.'
---K. Irby?
In the mirror of our lives words are lost in translation. Over time the silver inherits the black. In winter we sit around fires, our bewilderment increasing by the day. Hands bear the true sense of loss..
We grow into the image we have of ourselves, Iris said, meaning picture, meaning not the word.
'I mean: we are human. Human is not
to be something we know, but to be as the Jews say God
must be, without an image. What happens takes no
care for how we look, what part we take,
or whether we can. Something there is will be.
Caress me, be kind. We have no history.'
A word in translation is the thing: the strangeness that lives on in our heart is like a tune we recognize by the first notes, but whose words we have forgotten.
The sawmi said time is not the same. By which she meant: you enter another room, walk to another floor, and still have no picture of the house. Denise wrote: a gold ring is lost in the house-and even if you don't search for it, you know it's there.
A mirror bordered by wood is a world within a world, a world of one-off sentences, of two-dimensional experience, an icon of black and gold..we see through a glass darkly.
We walk, like ghosts in the sunlight, out of time. The sympathy of a random gaze your way draws you out of your reverie.
It is futile to look for the self that doesn't change while all its properties and relationships do so.
Avoid mirrors, reflections. Your list of books 'to read', your lives 'to live', grows longer and more improbable with each passing year. You find yourself where you are. When the mirror has nothing left to say, then are we free? The fantasy of distance..was this any different from the fantasy of nearness?
The intoxication of images and mirrors: to see and be seen-in the right light, or at an angle to the universe, your fall in the direction you're leaning.
The fractured image, restored in the mirror to wholeness, albeit momentarily, like a word recalled or held on to, a memory of former times..
(words by Bronk and Blackburn)
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