(no subject)

Without a guide, without a map, without a prayer I was shoved forth out of a past lost to memory onto sinking, shifting lands that mock my attempts to know or even name them. Not knowing why I am here, I nonetheless think there must be a reason, though I worry I have as little reason to think that as I have understanding of what it might be. Perhaps something was whispered to me back at the gate, if there was a gate, if there was a back. But my doubt, in the absence of all else, becomes my one inclination. Because of it I do not sit still and gather whatever life might be gathered that way. Because of it phenomena rain onto and into me in my progress, rather than drifting on by. And phenomena are in all defineable ways overwhelming.

Yet I try, amid confusion, and interpret until reminded why one must never interpret, then simply move until I again forget to not try, then again forget to not interpret. Sometimes a gleam on a surface sucks me off of what doubtful path I doubtfully follow, into a frenzy of baseless hopes for the inklings of a real story, a quickening of meaning unto some effect past doubt. Always I am left without a path, without some crucial garment, and with novel flavors of pain defying number.

Others like myself I think there may be. Certainly there are others who are certainly like something. It is they who do me the most harm, made worse by my so seldom knowing if it has been harm. But with them things are tensest, seem to shift while staying still. Meanings roll over and come back even less trusted. Meanings may be lost, may be impostures. Their faces are the most frightening: they are close enough to mine that what differences exist seem to confirm, in mocking detail, that nothing is truly like me; they are far enough from mine that they tantalize me with passing notions that some chance of company, some rallying of what I myself might be, is by scant marring or disguise successfully withheld from me.

A temptation I periodically fail to resist, and in this will fail again, is a certain low and dark and warm and damp locale, a tucking under and away deep in a corner. Into these I go and stay a while, until the stir in each pebble of the whatever it is that I am becomes unbearable, from guilt and fear at what might go awry from what I leave off from, and I climb and stagger up and forth, unsure, regretful, back to what I fear may be no journey.

(no subject)

It is mine to do, and therefore mine to have. I say farewell to all that made this possible, and feel it blur behind me into something in a peaceful dark. Lit by the forward push of my love a mattering world spreads itself out before me. With each patch meaning so much to my step, which it sustains, with so much happening for itself, distilling something more for me with every dying away, the ground I walk on serves as its own map. How marvellous, that I am each way free. My quest is self-appointing as I go, with no directive but that man within, whose step I emulate, or happenings of such color, and color of color, that I am sucked in. How sweet that all is always already happening, in awe-met structures and vortices, fresh gestures and possibilities coursing all through all and me.

And what it all is is but the toe of what it is to me. I meet each wave and, meeting, gather it into my own forth and uprushing. The strands of all I apprehend melt like sugar in the burning, flowing me that cups horizons. I fall in love with so many of my makings--but not so deep or long that there are fresh impulsions missed.

What wakes me most are people, of course, who seem at first my echoes, but open out like sunbeams from there to reveal a stir of shapes I need, and know, and never knew, mythologies of fire fire-drawn by fire with fire on fire for fiery needs, that still anon dissolve past full discerning. The which all fades away, at times, behind the suddenly sufficient reality of the smile or other play of the simply human face inspiring it. What more is needed in such moments of I am I and you are you and we are happy?

For all that almost everything is always wondrous well, one sometimes wearies. The ground tugs down and sometimes we should go. This is another mode, thus has another set of pleasures. Here we melt into what is beside us, and find that though at rest it is always falling. We roll, the things and we, to warm forgetful dissolution. The warm floods out all loneliness, prepares the purest cool of self-composure. Seasons slide away out of our pores. The eyes close on the gossiping stars, which just puts gossiping stars inside. They run in lines and pour in sheets and paint a new desire. Ready and dripping self, we start again up and rise downstairs to meet and make tomorrow.