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

Monday, November 12, 2012

river and light


are you looking for the perfect moment?  are you looking for the perfect anything?  perfect is perfect and everything is perfect and nothing.  what does perfect mean?  you torment yourself with perfect.  you have a yoke between you and your language and yet the word is innocent.  the yoke is your own violent making, the conjunction between mind and being, a bastardized yearning that hooks all words impossibly back toward themselves, but words are empty spaces meant only to be held as gentle hands.

unhook the yoke.  look for nothing.  there - now - breathe.

8 comments:

  1. I come here often and read your words. Most every time I am speechless. This is one of those times. Amazing writing.

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  2. No word is innocent, and the use we make of them. Perhaps we are slaves of words, but without them we are lost. We may be perfect in the silence, but we are also able to enjoy with your words accompanied by a magnificent image.
    A big hug.

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  3. oh my! this is beautiful! the light and texture...

    perfection is a peculiar concept. in nature there is only approximation to perfection. from what i can see, it seems to have very little to do with living life well. and it can get in the way of the doing of things; the taking of pictures for instance.

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  4. to breathe life into forms
    yet know they are not real,
    to feel and yet to doubt,
    that's the essence, to me, of human being...

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  5. Your text is the words untouched.Great!!!
    Yannis Politopoulos

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  6. i've been pulling off the yoke then forcing it back on, then off, then on. this new chapter i am on is teaching me much about my realistic and unrealistic expectations of myself. it's exhausting trying to be perfect. learning to let go, unchaining myself link by link. xo

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  7. may i be lazy and quote?

    wallace stevens:

    There would still remain the never-resting mind,
    So that one would want to escape, come back
    To what had been so long composed.
    The imperfect is our paradise.
    Note that, in this bitterness, delight,
    Since the imperfect is so hot in us,
    Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.


    love :-))

    .


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"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))