Like an overflowing equilibrium; please forgive me for saying this abstractly when I know you prefer poetry. But it was the way words carved the experience, even as they shifted it from sensation to representation. What can embody the wetness or the absolute dryness? How can the world of forms be so liquid?
Monsieur! I would never speak in riddles to you. Stop laughing. Why do you call me delightfully irreverent? How do you know Socrates wouldn't enjoy such puns? Besides, I don't mean in any absolute or invisible ways; nor as semiotic symbol. The 'noumenon of the phenonemon'? Sort of, yes... even if you're silly! As long as they're both the same, that is.
The forms of the world are like a waterfall that constantly changes yet maintains its pattern. Does that help?
You're making me laugh, mon amor. What do you mean, Niagara Falls is eroding itself into disappearance? Sweet love, perhaps that's it.
Afterall, I was floating stably, feeling the tenuousness of the deeper permanence of existence, an existence that will ultimately fragment and float away.
Changes are rising through the layers of my life. No, Monsieur, oh vous charmez, but I was not referring to layers of sheets. I slept and woke into another perception of reality. It was as if the continents of my life were floating. It was as if they were floating lotuses. Without knowing, or attitudes, or opinions, or any way to comprehend the flux. Where was the ground?
Flux? Oh, you make me giggle, Heraclitean, sure. Or Relativistic time and space that is itself fluxes of events that unfold, close, open, shift, metamorphose, glide, disperse, flow and hold still.
Energy is the ecstasy of form. Do you not agree?
Yes, amour doux, I do remember those enfolded nights of ecstasies.
Yes, I was alone, as always. Why do you, who are so far away, care? I woke into heat with the goldenness of the sun all around, only it was night, the softness of vellum cotton sheets . I always think of you! Why do you ask? In the world that is a series of intersecting, coalescing systems, nothing can be gained or lost. No, not like the stock market; Monsieur, you are silly tonight!
It's the momentum of things, forever oscillating.
The Ground of Being, mon amor, is no ground at all.
If this piece is a little hard to follow, and I hope I've personalized it with a Monsieur conversation, made it more intimate, but I wrote it today in Starbucks on a lunch break from working in the head office of a bank on reception on almost no sleep since my daughter kept me up long into the night while she struggled with a philosophy paper (on ethics, not Ground of Being, sigh), and then I edited it later in the afternoon... it is based on the strange experience of waking from a short sleep yesterday evening.
ReplyDeletethe thing that I admire about glass as a substance is that it is just liquid slowed way, way down. It is transparent and in flow and yet oh so fragile. Either a scientific description - supercooled liquid - or one of those riddles of nature - as when you come upon lightning glass carved into a smooth post-storm beach. Am I making sense? Probably not. You are writing tired and I am reading tired. Does that build nonsense or highly fascinating understandings?
ReplyDelete..."lightning glass carved into a smooth post-storm beach"... sounds like something I'd like to see. A perfect metaphor, too. You understand this piece in ways that I don't even - perhaps you've been in this 'place' yourself? And the slow liquid of glass is transparent, too. With Ester's comment on the painting ('the transparency of time'), and now the poetry you've left as a comment (which is so wonderful), shaped with the fire of lightning, transparencies are filtering and layering everywhere...
ReplyDelete