Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

I wonder how I got to where I am and how I will get to where I’m going. Then, and now, I realize luck has nothing to do with it; however — faith: everything.

We absolutely, positively, hands-down create our lives. That purple elephant standing behind you? Entirely possible, only of your creation. And thank God we have everything and nothing to do with it. We are bigger than the Everything Bomb, and we know when we have detonated. Bigger than anything a void and thin awareness, there it is behind my eyes, seeing straight through to its other side. A world as flat as paper, 2 dimensions, once we see past it all, once we see past to the empty nospace-notime-nodimension beyond.

What is she saying? Too much literature. Spirituality is a dead word. There is nothing but an infinite cliché of blackness, or perhaps light, and both – but no words live there. Even in this colorless world it cannot be captured, bc it is beyond color or words or this or that – neti, neti – and with that hum of the car that flushes by my window I remember why the masters (the “old boys,” as he called them) stopped speaking, because there is no. (just no.)

Perhaps more useful than a vow of celibacy is a vow of silence. Or not making any vow, because it all, in the end, doesn’t matter (and every itch reverberating, likewise, mattering ultimately). That sweet forever-unfurling calls up on the tele my other half and tells her to just slow down, there is no need to stand up straight. The pain, even, is not worth shouting over. It’s just another ripple worming it’s way through your sight.

Have I mentioned before how much I’m in love? Quite spectacularly. You, I love you. You’re wondering if I’m talking to you, or to some other you-self, but no: it’s you. Just you, reading this page, these digital inkings of black pixels on white, a humming beyond birds but still in matter. I don’t know, I realize. I have come to this realization a hundred thousand times. Perhaps there is some hope: at least I don’t remember knowing I know nothing, at least I am discovering again this simple truth. Out-and-out blank.

I wonder sometimes if everything I learn or come to see isn’t but already known, I just have simple amnesia. Perhaps all my life everyone has known I suffer from long term memory loss, and they are just placating me. “Dearest Shannon, you know who I am. You know who you are. Let’s just go along as if nothing has happened.” And then they hand me my fish.

But the problem is, I don’t know who you are, Anonymous, and I have only a little inkling of who I am (Perhaps, We, the Same) and I only think I know anyone, some facial recognition, but never the same river twice.

A headlight tells me it’s time. No more feathers in this old bird’s cap. Sometimes, I already know what water feels like. Sometimes, I don’t even have to be wet to sting the cold of it. Sometimes, the water looks just warm enough to swim.

§840 · February 7, 2010 · Over in Oakland, Writing & Language · · [Print]

1 Comment to “A Sunday Night Freewrite”

  1. Kate says:

    Beautiful Truth.

    I miss you!!!

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