Saturday, August 27, 2011
there is a photograph that is waiting inside of me. i know what it looks like, or what it seems like, but i do not know what the photograph is of. the thing that it is of is irrelevant, or so it seems to me. there is great space in this photograph but not emptiness. there is vaguely shape, somewhat direction - outward, onward, and yet it suggests inward too from a bottom shelf in me, soft tones, and light, obscured light, diffused light, emanating, inviting, allowing light. others take this photograph and i look and recognize this yearning in myself but i can not see where to take this picture in my life. there are so many solids in my life. there is so much being. this photograph that i wait for, that i yearn for, is beneath the being of all things, as though it is springtime and i am a young blind woman opening the door, stepping out onto the warm grass, anticipating scent.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Kundera writes, (ya, i'm reading it again) "Tomas did not realize at the time that metaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love." The Unberarable Lightness of Being.
on one side of the river is a fraying flower/weed. on the other side of the river, rock. the river is invisible. you tell me what this is. it has the potential to be anything, my body and my spirit, my children and i (interchangeable as rock or flower), you, me, life, death. you show me one thing in this world that is not (potentially) a metaphor. it is as though metaphors have blessed mouths, they are that which animate all things! and yet here we are, tiny sacs of being, with the power (?) to assign meaning.