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Oct. 25th, 2014 11:48 pmSchooling is a system of locks to keep out the eleven brutal facts.
Diving tea, a heretical homeopath's invention, when stirred then stirred again a second later absorbs what it reflected in that second. Not just an angle's worth but every angle supersurface seeable: stirred in a room, a room. To drink the tea's to drink the room. Keep it on your table. Wait for the event. Stir stop stir. Sip. Let others sip.
The homeopath heretical hoped to heal. Say a meadow's summer's day. Prepared cup placed in a lidded metal box with a rubber base on a cloth of felt in a chest held still in water. When war, the war that's never stopped, tears part of you away, you drain the water pop the chest unlock the box and take a drink of tea and there it is.
The notion's we forget things into words and then the words. You're not back there, but it's in you, a memory complete for a change, not a memory of memory, not of the distance between then and you, not of the then you'd have liked, not an average of sixty days similar. Not just how the curtain crinkled but the spider's hung-on for-dear-life gentle sticks, the differing scents of updust from down, how the smooth of the wood, probed, proved rough but with roughs in their own right smooth, how the summer light comes in obliquely, swiss cheesed through the leaves. Two days are lived at once for just a second.
Possibly it heals. It must remind of much that one's forgotten, must let one feel a second way to be can be.
But two days at once and day falls away. What stays, what's in both theres, the threading-throughs, the frame: self and life both purified and sharing just one neck: eleven brutal truths we thought evaded: true now, we said, but gone in just one minute: an accident that things would seem so now: since a moment since and the moment next differ as water and air from present earth: then we were lovely and soon we'll live forever.
Undiluted horrors heaped at home. The death of the promise of so much change. Those books you thought you read? it never happened. The letters, all stitched in, were just one thread. The paper of your days tears as it's pulled. As you are pulled, mere thread.
Are dragged. No tautness. Worse than the pull that lets you feel your threading of the days is the how of the pull. No anchors.
The future and past were bookends, were covers, were fronts and backs to your pages, were black ink white pulp. Without them you're just what you are looking down in a cup.
Diving tea, a heretical homeopath's invention, when stirred then stirred again a second later absorbs what it reflected in that second. Not just an angle's worth but every angle supersurface seeable: stirred in a room, a room. To drink the tea's to drink the room. Keep it on your table. Wait for the event. Stir stop stir. Sip. Let others sip.
The homeopath heretical hoped to heal. Say a meadow's summer's day. Prepared cup placed in a lidded metal box with a rubber base on a cloth of felt in a chest held still in water. When war, the war that's never stopped, tears part of you away, you drain the water pop the chest unlock the box and take a drink of tea and there it is.
The notion's we forget things into words and then the words. You're not back there, but it's in you, a memory complete for a change, not a memory of memory, not of the distance between then and you, not of the then you'd have liked, not an average of sixty days similar. Not just how the curtain crinkled but the spider's hung-on for-dear-life gentle sticks, the differing scents of updust from down, how the smooth of the wood, probed, proved rough but with roughs in their own right smooth, how the summer light comes in obliquely, swiss cheesed through the leaves. Two days are lived at once for just a second.
Possibly it heals. It must remind of much that one's forgotten, must let one feel a second way to be can be.
But two days at once and day falls away. What stays, what's in both theres, the threading-throughs, the frame: self and life both purified and sharing just one neck: eleven brutal truths we thought evaded: true now, we said, but gone in just one minute: an accident that things would seem so now: since a moment since and the moment next differ as water and air from present earth: then we were lovely and soon we'll live forever.
Undiluted horrors heaped at home. The death of the promise of so much change. Those books you thought you read? it never happened. The letters, all stitched in, were just one thread. The paper of your days tears as it's pulled. As you are pulled, mere thread.
Are dragged. No tautness. Worse than the pull that lets you feel your threading of the days is the how of the pull. No anchors.
The future and past were bookends, were covers, were fronts and backs to your pages, were black ink white pulp. Without them you're just what you are looking down in a cup.
