Sunday, July 17, 2016

Those Berries Are Going To Pick Themselves

Following yet more bad news - it's summer, after all - I wander into the meadow and study the old gardening table left by a previous owner. One swallows the ghost, one embraces the spirit, one wakes up from the dream to yet another dream. Nothing happens? Well, earlier a deep mist trailed along the eastern treeline, a lovely strip of gray against green hills softening. Is nonbeing the horizon then? Two days of non-writing pass but are not gone? That wasn't the sound of a hemlock falling but my heart ripping. We adore violence, we abhor violence and Venn diagrams only make it worse. Wordiness a kind of giving up, a sort of cross one ascends without knowing it's a cross. The more specific your dreams become, the more consciousness dissipates throughout the collective, helpfully. We are here, after all, and not not-together - but also not together - which does confound one's admittedly New Testament sentimentality. Longing also comes and goes, as does a lingering desire for even more. Those berries aren't going to pick themselves but on the other hand, those berries are going to pick themselves, and one sees this and the interior shifts accordingly. How quiet the cats become when I am thinking deeply! How troubling your silence! Poor confused Sean stumbling through the meadow, all the while humming nearer my God to thee.

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