On what is lost
Feb. 12th, 2014 03:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wolven7The prescription is for a round and the silent circling aspects of forgetting, of displacing, of dissociating and disconnecting. The prescription is for ice and distance in the absence of a characteristic fire, for arms outstretched in distance-keeping rather than embrace and exchange, because that is precisely the harder thing to do. Find the subsequent, seek the next, what comes after this place after this time this process of difference and dissonance? What is there when there is only everything you've already known? When there is only everything you've already known, what is there? What could there be? What could possibly come of this unchanging stasis? This stillness? This chrysalis?
What is there that isn't this? What isn't there that is this? In this distance, this separation, this smell of cold early spring rain in an unfamiliar city, the memory of a taste in a place that felt like a home that didn't know you, or a house you used to live in where the people who lived there now had always lived there and you never watched firemen spray down everything you'd loved while you played with your favourite unscathed things in the front yard, tumbling, falling, and even that joy a weird moment of trauma... Smoke and smoked salmon. What is there that sets us down in the aftermath of our self-satisfied conflagration and asks us what comes next? Because if there's nothing, if there's no one, then there's always us, and that's not a revelation or a rending or a reveal, it's no apocalyptic pronouncement that you will always be there for you, but a shoulder, a phone call, a leaning post, within yourself. A quiet stillness.
The time and space around us mean everything that we make them mean, all of us, together, but we can see them, feel them, taste them smell them hear them sense them over the horizon and know without knowing how that they only Are as we Let them be, that they only mean what we want them to mean, and that consciousness, that selfhood, that awareness is a hindrance and a birthright, a set of wings of wood and metal and wax shackled to our backs, it keeps us in place and it sets us adrift, and, unmoored in our panic, we call this freedom. We don't move as the Dao moves, because the Dao only ever moves as we move, it floats and drifts in time with our breath and our heartbeat and the rhythm we use to call Shai Hulud from her depths, to brave the basement of our thoughts and find Ripley waiting there for us with a flamethrower for a torch, arm-in-arm with everything we thought we couldn't bear to be.
We are waiting, forgetting, misplacing the system of our passages and plans and we are not without artifice, not without artfulness, we are art. We Are Artifice. A carefully cultivated nature, a crafted presentation of what we so deeply feel that we can't but adumbrate and bonsai-like curate what it is that gets known. To want so badly to be seen and known, in full, that we must pick only the finest pieces to put on display.
Get out, initiate, get out.
You're out of this world, out of your mind, get out of town, you're too much, a hoot, a gas.
I can't understand you. I will understand you.
A silent mirror, an arc of the hand, the resting place and the true source of stated desires. What security is there in wishes fulfilled, in dreams come true? Whose wishes? What dreams?
Let it go. Release it. It was never yours, any more than anything ever was, which is to say, en toto, complete, world without end, yours. And hers and mine and everyone's, just like we said before, so let it go home. Let the decision stand, and give to the world what belongs to you, give to the world what you've made of it in meaning and sense and direction and purpose and then let it.
Return.
The favour.
Good night.
What is there that isn't this? What isn't there that is this? In this distance, this separation, this smell of cold early spring rain in an unfamiliar city, the memory of a taste in a place that felt like a home that didn't know you, or a house you used to live in where the people who lived there now had always lived there and you never watched firemen spray down everything you'd loved while you played with your favourite unscathed things in the front yard, tumbling, falling, and even that joy a weird moment of trauma... Smoke and smoked salmon. What is there that sets us down in the aftermath of our self-satisfied conflagration and asks us what comes next? Because if there's nothing, if there's no one, then there's always us, and that's not a revelation or a rending or a reveal, it's no apocalyptic pronouncement that you will always be there for you, but a shoulder, a phone call, a leaning post, within yourself. A quiet stillness.
The time and space around us mean everything that we make them mean, all of us, together, but we can see them, feel them, taste them smell them hear them sense them over the horizon and know without knowing how that they only Are as we Let them be, that they only mean what we want them to mean, and that consciousness, that selfhood, that awareness is a hindrance and a birthright, a set of wings of wood and metal and wax shackled to our backs, it keeps us in place and it sets us adrift, and, unmoored in our panic, we call this freedom. We don't move as the Dao moves, because the Dao only ever moves as we move, it floats and drifts in time with our breath and our heartbeat and the rhythm we use to call Shai Hulud from her depths, to brave the basement of our thoughts and find Ripley waiting there for us with a flamethrower for a torch, arm-in-arm with everything we thought we couldn't bear to be.
We are waiting, forgetting, misplacing the system of our passages and plans and we are not without artifice, not without artfulness, we are art. We Are Artifice. A carefully cultivated nature, a crafted presentation of what we so deeply feel that we can't but adumbrate and bonsai-like curate what it is that gets known. To want so badly to be seen and known, in full, that we must pick only the finest pieces to put on display.
Get out, initiate, get out.
You're out of this world, out of your mind, get out of town, you're too much, a hoot, a gas.
I can't understand you. I will understand you.
A silent mirror, an arc of the hand, the resting place and the true source of stated desires. What security is there in wishes fulfilled, in dreams come true? Whose wishes? What dreams?
Let it go. Release it. It was never yours, any more than anything ever was, which is to say, en toto, complete, world without end, yours. And hers and mine and everyone's, just like we said before, so let it go home. Let the decision stand, and give to the world what belongs to you, give to the world what you've made of it in meaning and sense and direction and purpose and then let it.
Return.
The favour.
Good night.
