IT is morning!
THIS morning I let my terrier 'Bucket' TAKE ME for a walk.
So we went on TWO walks : - )
The sun streamed over the fields and touched the side of my face. For the
first time this year at near dawn the sun is warming the side of my face.
Now, was I reaching for the warmth or was it reaching for me?
Varela, Maturana, de Lange and 'Bucket'...good company as I perambulate...
- ' From this the poem springs: that we live in a place That is not our
own and, much more, not ourselves And hard it is in spite of blazoned
'Bucket' means in Malay'- 'Small Mountain' -, something that I discovered
AFTER I named him.
Words from an exhibition of mind, - ' the circling of the blackness
encompasses both the background and foreground of the poem, as the two
shift into each other (there is) all the appalling strength of remembering
- ' I saw how the night came,
Came striding like the colour of the heavy hemlocks
I felt afraid.
And I remembered the cry of the Peacocks.'
('Bach's "Musical Offering" a dark slide downward - from a diminished
seventh interval to a descending chromatic sequence.')
Thoughts as fragments, 'like so many candles lighting the way to something
But night and its sister dark are by nature OPEN, creating room.
To the night we bring day, round and around.
Life, a mere insomniac interval?
Night layers itself; it is to night that we return as day discloses,
'We are all children of torn Gods-' I once wrote in a thesis, somewhere,
sometime, and someplace.
In a radio interview an artist who saw deeply into nature was asked, ' Why do
you paint even old people naked?'
'But I don't!'
It was true, he didn't!
Mmm. What was being seen that was not disclosed (disclothed?)
Sometimes I think I see 'traces' of what 'was', what 'is' and what might
Nature and paintings can do this to one.
'The lastingness of anything/everything'
There may be splendor in bareness, more so as we learn to celebrate our souls.
My grandmother used to sit me on her knee and tell me stories read from a
book. The book was small, but the stories everlasting‚^ņ¶how so? 'Granny, tell
me that story again, Please!' 'Alright, just once more‚^ņ¶'
Years later I sat on the knee of the great Doctor of Vienna and as he 'rocked
me to sleep' he taught me all about 'repetitions' and 'compulsions', and how
as little children we learn how to embrade our love into death, our light
into dark. Something is gently patiently disclosed there, BOTH/AND.
Blinding light as binding light. In/SIGHT
A monk sat at the monastery in Rila, Bulgaria for thirteen years in a dark
cell carving with a pin into a piece of limewood scenes from the bible
until after twelve years he went completely blind. A strange 'form' of
LOVE IS PATIENT. LOVE IS (K) BLIND.
Repetition as gesture strikes deeply. Deep can be fragile. Ritual.
We do not last; our thoughts may when we make of them 'gestures'.
To utter a syllable is such a gesture, to tap one word on the keyboard.
A reaching kiss upon the child's forehead is another.
It speaks of a baptismal moment.
Upon the death of an artist/philosopher and poet‚^ņ¶'- Black Refracts Heat
- (they, the pictures) refract a kind of warmth, holding on to the courage
of the gesture itself, through all the strains it occasions, remembers and
embodies. To read (them) in series- is to read, now, a life and not just
death that resolved it. -‚^ņ¶To be left open, layers here are to be read
THROUGH each other, we read through fragile shapes, papery and torn‚^ņ¶but
they have the texture of stone, and they will hold. I read it as great
poetry, ongoing. Emblematic of the whole idea (of series) itself, as the
SENTENCE read against us and that we read, never closing it, never bowing
to it, simply and superbly using it, too, as a MATTER of art, thought and
I sometimes think I see some light, glimpsed in the lastingness of our
Outside in the eucalyptus tree doves wings flap against a blue sky!
YOURS AND MINE.
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