Architecture can be thought of as a construction if your focus prioritizes the positive, but if we switch the primary to the negative, it is the release of void figures from the blank slab of open air. A person too can be an object if we focus on the positive, but likewise they can be a witness:
We have been granted as windows
To let in strawberry mornings
What is underneath the false-self? That thing that we so often offer to one another? I don’t think love comes out of the positive. I don’t even see my body as the positive. She is too wild, she is never the same river twice. The fact of her coherence is a mystery of the craft of the Creator. But there is an image that is held, by myself and by others, that represents myself—Even though I once weighed 5lbs, even though I was once a single cell, even though I will someday rot—It’s like the body writes a sign, for it’s being, and we can often forget that we are not that sign. I have suffered from this sickness, wanting in despair not to be one’s self, false association with the mask. It’s a terrible frame to occupy and I think that my savior has been Love.
There is something in the experience of being loved by another, that for me anyways revealed the mask as such. Is it that no sign can be confused with something so worthy? Is it that there’s something too profane in seeing the mask being loved?
Where in, at times, we feel
An endless outward making contact
With the thoughts that can be heard.
And under them, the gleam
Of a lost dark keyhole,
Whose black of which I am.
I have loved others, and still do love other who are dead. Where do I love towards in order to love them? And yet in lived experience it’s not at all difficult, there’s nothing easier that loving the departed. I think this can be linked to their basic negativity, I was never loving something when I was loving them face to face. There is a saying, “man/woman of your dreams.” And indeed we do dream of people whom we love. How is it possible to conjure their presence? When no appearance is ever stable in dreams? How can I grieve the loss of a loved one, and not just pull them up for comfort in my dreams? And yet, sometimes they will come to us at night.
AN ODE TO THE SPIDERS WHO SKATE THE GREAT MENISCUS AND
REVERENCE FOR THEIR REFLECTIONS CAUGHT HAUNTING EITHER SIDE.
He was young I think.
I wish I could recite what we talked about.
I ask myself how I can know him anymore.
What there is in a dream to recognize as him.
They keep us up to speed.while he reminds me that his himselffness is eternal
and has not changed since my myselfness
laid dormant in his living body.
If there is some being of his,Where does it live now and what is that living?
Why can’t we conjure up these dreams at will?
Opposite shores of existence-statuses clamor.
Recognition amid conjurings,the receptive and the creative.
Microbes and specters
A holy trinity of
River-beavers,
dead fathers and
gastrointestinal spiritsLike a hole in a mirror that
leads to a hole in a mirror.
And we, only that two-framed door-void,
Towards which both sides direct desires,
Maybe an oscillating motion
which reverses the inness to outness
along with the figures and captors of gaze.Day to night, mind to sleep and
Two black lungs guide living fathers towards
the undreamt fathers, dead except in dreams.
Outside of time; uninterrupted loveBetween a piece of death-living and a morsel of life among the dead.
This is not meaningless, it’s nonsense.
It’s laughably hard to give yourself to someone, what are you to give? To hold others before yourself, it seems like this is really the highest goal. The metaphor is simple and clear in expression, but so confusing when in practice, in the life world, neither of you are an object to be held in space. It’s painful to fail at this, even when you can hold unwavering faith that this one simple shift is all a person will ever want or need.
moving sam <3