not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Monday, January 16, 2012


it's not the quiet of the forest, the trees, the crows breaking free from the thin lines to be solitary and independent for only a brief and deceptive moment.  it's not the slow leg of the moose in the snag struck like a tree to the earth against the enduring rock, or the moose's wrinkled unquestioning face.  it's not the shadows beneath the pine like time or the white defined branches of the stripped bare maple in the lock of winter's brace.  it's none of these things.  and it's not my relationship to them.  (how can you relate to something that is, when you are not?)

it's the uncountability of the parts.
it's the namelessness of the whole.


  1. I head into the forest every morning...

  2. thanks, steven.

    ollie, it is a good way. what other way is there? and could we manage any other way?

    monica, i'm so glad you asked this question. i wrote this the other day and felt it as i wrote it, believed it and then when i read it back i asked myself the same question. i think it has to do with the damned ego holding us singularly and independent. until that is gone (which is the very thing, ironically, which allows us to note the whole) i am not in these terms a part of the whole. but then i have to argue with myself, for the whole is all and all encompassing! but i do not lie down. i do not simply and quietly be. this is where i am not, my ego causes me to be countable and named.


  3. we broke off from the whole
    to see the whole more clearly.
    we keep looking back over our shoulder,
    at ourselves, in wonder. words fail us.


"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))