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