The Texture & Specificity of Life

of a world in which everything is always falling apart and growing back together again the wince hydrogen peroxide on a cut thinking things having no one to say them to already knowing how it will end knowing already that it will end, love works in progress and unfinished poem...notes on a process

"Neither do I," said Lee "But I take my two pipes in the afternoon, no more and no less, like the elders. And I feel that I am a man. And I feel that a man is a very important thing--maybe more important than a star. This is not theology. I have no bent towards gods. But I have a new love for that glittering instrument, the human soul. It is a lovely and unique thing in the universe. It is always attacked and never destroyed--because 'Thou mayest'". for DQ

fall feels like monsters...the dying season recalls the dead...and the dead recall the passage..is the ride pleasant and soothing, a cruise..? or tortuous, tossed, sickening...

walking about reaching, I wonder at the theology that labels pride a sin. And a bathos opposing Nature, and Grace. ( There are many paths to awe. ) All of them begin with a fundamental assertion, a movement out. And then, at the end, they break. And we are fragmented. Hemingway's old man, "destroyed, but not beaten" or, is it the other way around? The Cartesian consolation, cogito, ergo sum: a weakness. let me be salt, I cannot help but turn and look god love a woman god love the earth we are almost there