this is true, i want to shut-up and i don't know how.ironically, from a poem of silence comes another poem. i am incorrigibly noisy:my daughter gathers string and ribbon in a small clasped boxwhether or not it is useful is irrelevantwhether or not it is pretty is irrelevantshe touches it sometimesmy son collects swords and guns, feathers and driftwoodhe can kill many men in the course of one gamehe runs my fingers over the topography of his lipssleeps lolli-tongued with his blanketthere is not one stone distant enough for me to sit uponneither the ocean nor the desert is immense enough to scrub me cleani say om - but yet i say omthe crow sits overheadxoerin
i, with great will, do not say anything(do you hear me emphatically silent?)hear the wind insteadhear what is insidehear what is notthere is too much business below with melook, look, to the tree topslook to the space beside your heartlook into nothing(it pains me even to point)
Can it be that if we are emphatically silent that sometimes symbols must arise? Case in point. (:) I drove along the too-snowy road for safety and had to turn back to a well-plowed road. As I turned the car (fearfully of the ditch) in the white everything (white nothing!) a crow flew next to me. I had no camera but my phone, and I know he would be gone before I could catch him in the frame. I think that he flew from me to your tree top so you could fill your empty white nothing with him.
ruth, out of the pressure of our being emphatically silent, a pressure like rocks upon dead plants, over millennium there is an eruption of symbols. i love this! yes. the pressure is our need to say, to understand and communicate, isn't it, the state of our being?why do we have such need of communication? why? why do we need to translate experience? there is a key here to understanding existence.imagine if we could catch that crow! (but of course we can't.) how we would maul him. how he would disappear in our hands.xoerin
Is it just me, or does it seem the more we understand... or, the more content we are with our inability to understand... which may be an understanding of sorts... the less we have, or want to say? The more 'painful it becomes to point'? It's probably just me... I'm not much of a talker.
steven, it is not just you. jesus, do we get old, or what? i imagine two old people with bowed legs, she in a thin dress over her formidable bulk and body, he in threadbare clothes, a plaid shirt, green work pants. they're quiet, these two. what the hell is there to say? they know it all or they know nothing, perhaps these two things being the same. youth is such yapping. (i am young still too, but i am old also.)xoerin
I look at your picture while taking a frugal lunch ... a distant bird ... I feel weird.HugsW.
white! a frugal lunch. feeling odd. the distance. can i say i am so alive in this reaction)) i would sit and eat a frugal lunch alongside you.xoerin
"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))