An English In Kentucky



















June 26th 2009


    Nor is there a continuum between perfect and imperfect.  This mood of mine allows for either 'yes' or 'no'.  The grays of reason are beyond the horizon.  And here, my blue-eyed comrade with that complete crew become a jeweled discourse I would do well to heed.  But I am lonely by design, otherwise vengeance is no longer pure.

    A physical response to a memory is real enough in the "I that is Me".  Then when it belongs to the "I that is We" it becomes a pool of history into which beings dive to refresh a too often foolish purpose.  This is no apparent or simple thing.  It is phenomena, that place of joining, that cathedral of understanding.  The great dome that is consciousness.  A complexity that defies traditional description.  And while I have never assumed that place is free, I did not acknowledge  how sourly it infringed upon that part of space that belongs to me.

    I could say that prior to my arrival, these things are already written on the slate.  I could call them chemistry, or physics and then join with those I appreciate in sensible discovery.  But that would give me a career.  That would give me a pool of history into which I could dive to refresh purpose.  Get that pat on the back.  Sing in the choir.  But if I were that person there would be no future.  There would be no solution.  Instead there would be that refuge for the frail, a predetermined truth.


    Necessary always in the search for the real to recall the insidious nature of career.  That fitting of pegs into holes.   Obscure perhaps for the well-adjusted, but fortunately function provides for outsiders.  We are shunted toward the border lands.

    I will say this.  In the borderlands, and contrary to assumption, we are closer to real.  Sublimation does not become fat on our belly, or the color of our skin, or the quantity of our stuff.  In the borderlands we are explorers and terrified.  In the borderlands we join with the ancestors in a fragmentary grasp of 'time as quality', then hunger or something ordinary precludes progress.

    In the end however, I am calling to the wind.  A tree in the forest will fall without sound.  It is here we begin anew, uncluttered by those ostrich feathers of ritual.  It is here we follow the lead bull into the night, and understand future.  

    Together this journey becomes dangerous.  Alone it is an un-judged quality, what the well-adjusted might call ignorance.  


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