“Although my mind confuses eruption for euphoria and devotion for diaspora, it clearly distinguishes today from tomorrow and yesterday from today. Or does it? Perhaps it blurs yesterday and tomorrow with the present so that life is one extended breath, minced to calendric intervals. Perhaps we are fit to perform only one duty: exhaling. Perhaps in life and in language, one can substitute one word for another word like pouring water from one glass into another. And perhaps I would like to surrogate exhaling for a more fitting dualistic jab: expiring.”
“Like a wind, like a storm, like a fire, like an earthquake, like a mud slide, like a deluge, like a tree falling, a torrent roaring, an ice floe breaking, like a tidal wave, like a shipwreck, like an explosion, like a lid blown off, like a consuming fire, like spreading blight, like a sky darkening, a bridge collapsing, a hole opening. Like a volcano erupting. Surely more than just the actions of people: choosing, yielding, braving, lying, understanding, being right, being deceived, being consistent, being visionary, being reckless, being cruel, being mistaken, being original, being afraid…”
“In other versions I am a doctor or a ghost. Perfect devices: doctors, ghosts, and crows. We can do things other characters can’t, like eat sorrow, un-birth secrets and have theatrical battles with language and god. I was friend, excuse, deus ex machina, joke, symptom, figment, spectre, crutch, toy, phantom, gag, analyst, and babysitter. I was after all ‘the central bird… at every extreme’. I’m a template. I know that, he knows that. A myth to be slipped in. Slip up into…
(I do this, perform some unbound crow stuff, for him. I think he thinks he’s a little bit Stonehenge shamanic, hearing the bird spirit. Fine by me, whatever gets him through.)
Grief is a Thing With Feathers by Max Porter
gifts. it’s time for gifts.
and the meaning,
it comes in waves.
“Hawk. Electricity is humming. You hear it in the mountains and rivers. You see it dance among the seas and stars and glowing around the moon, but in these days the glow is dying. What will be in the darkness that remains… Now the circle is almost complete. Watch and listen to the dream of time and space. It all comes out now, flowing like a river. That which is and is not.”
“Daydream, which is to thought as the nebula is to star, borders on sleep, and is concerned with it as its frontier. An atmosphere inhabited by living transparencies: there’s a beginning of the unknown. But beyond it the Possible opens out, immense.”
“there again is a circle
there again is a circle
the effort, see, the complete effort to be beautiful
and being beautiful
while the whole of anything is meant to be silently understood
only if it is the effort, not the complete thing
but the effort, the effort is the beauty, the effort
how long is waiting?
how short is life?
blue morning glory.
and that morning, or that moment
when it didn’t really matter
to live or die
it really didn’t matter
to live or die
that’s suspended animation
the suspended animation of being
that is true perfection…”
Harumi’s fire by the river and words from their twice told tales of the pomegranate forest
the color of a voice.
the veil of conversation.
the picture of health.
the tone of the weather.
the picture of a voice.
the color of conversation.
the tone of the weather is the color of a statue
with arms wide open overlooking a village
threatening to leap into the sea.
a luminous object
with clouded judgement
and a portal ripping through it’s chest.
but you were a bag of old potatoes. all eyes, not seeing.