||[May. 3rd, 2016|06:54 pm]
I want to know everything about them.|
Why? Or why everything?
He listened, she listened. A spear of light pools in the hollow of a leaf, like dew.
I want to know how to hide from them, probably. I think I want to know how to be hidden.
Can you explain it?
Yes, thinking, as though light were more than vision, as though light had vanished from the world in self-commune of pitch, until it became music. Music and sound with no superextension of being, no allusive vibrance like speech has and the grass does with wind, in detail. It is light, first light, as though shining over a void, pulsating, rhythmic, like the sky were ember. Because.
How it's a joy? How it's a wonder to talk with not just the expectation but the full knowledge that what you say and what you know will be your way back, if you ever forget.
But maybe it's not the joy you remember, the joy you felt before and that makes everything you say visible like light or love, and instead maybe it's not about being lost but about being so lost that you're beginning to feel found.
People talk like they touch: each person is like a garden the other keeps, loves, takes care of. Each flower in its season.
Well let's call this thinking: you walk into a garden one day and it's been without a gardener for a long time, perhaps forever. It's overgrown and the ivy snakes round the walls and strangles the trees, and moss makes the stone paths soft underfoot, and it's so green and the green is dark like the end of day, and you think that this garden is so full it can't be any more full, and then you wait and you find yourself a marble seat in lichen shade of marble, Artemis in repose, unclasping a sandal, and you look in the final light of day in that mediate time before daylight horizontal upends to the thousand spears of stars and the hours when sky becomes the earth's map, and you look and you look and you see more order in this disorder than any order you've ever known, and you realize, with a flash, with an ardor under trees where shade is more day than night, that you want to stay here until its disorder not only comes to order but such an order that all evidence of that disorder is like night half-held in the hand, the other half in the hederal scars time makes over the garden wall (and that's them).
If you know how to hide they will too.
They already know. We both do. This has happened before but we'll do it.
But what's this other, this tuning, this string that tightens? A blade pulled from the side glows with fire. To disappear...really.
We'd hide but with each other, at the same time. Like children do, in plain sight of each other, how they fake, how they love, how the play makes them love, how to know with lets us go anywhere and hide everywhere.
Once you know all the rules and the game is set, match, you can start to play.
That's how it feels. That's how it is. Once you know everything about them (we already do but we have to say it, we have to make it just like light seems day before it's light) you can start meaning things. And then it's music, everything.