Tuesday, September 27, 2016
This man sees himself in the eyes of a horse at dawn. Sweet tea, blue sky: is this what it means to live? I write, and the writing writes me, and yet really all that's happening is writing. Suddenly even dying resembles the next breath: there without asking, a kind of sustenance one can but can't explain. After he died I began to question the world as a form of fatherlessness but it answered gently: you are here and you are a father. "The greener grass is always brown" indeed. Einstein's insistence on the moon even when he wasn't looking at it was perhaps a way of saying it's okay to be in love. At dawn the horses walk with me the length of the pasture, an unexpected comfort, a real and sustainable happiness. I would show her the church steeple maybe, and tufts of grass that at a distance look like foxes, and maybe the river just a trickle in its banks. This nothing-happening is all there is? Forget your yes, your no and your maybe. Between kisses and no-kisses, a sweet world rises.