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

Saturday, September 7, 2013

between the red apple and the red apple




between the moment of being the red apple
and the way we touch the story of the red apple,
a thin chink, a fragment, a shallow groove,
the telling of the making and undoing exists.
if i had a little metal pecker, a knife's blade,
i would insert it and leverage the world open.

sadly, i do not

but my spirit doesn't know this.

7 comments:

  1. det første er kjempe fin synes jeg !

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    Replies
    1. i am unfortunately lost in translation. but then perhaps so too is the apple.

      xo
      erin

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  2. And I am happy because your spirit will keep driving you on. I will follow.

    The two images fill me up with that something I feel when I am at the lake. The light comes in the screened porch just like this, the trees contribute. The apples are real, just picked maybe, perfectly imperfect. Perfectly simple and complex.

    Thank you for taking me here.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Of course I return and find something else, something I didn't find the first time. I didn't connect the title with the images being in color and in black and white. This leads me to and between beautiful places! red apple ... and the essence of red apple ... ?

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    Replies
    1. ruth))) yes, this is the place i wanted to spend time in.

      can i ask, do you not want to rupture this place between? does the longing not course through your body begging to be pried open by your body?

      xo
      erin

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    2. Yes.

      and no. :)

      I have had a few-few-few moments when I felt the essence of a thing. Presence. That's all. Yes I long for it always, and yet I don't long for it always because when it comes of its own, it's better somehow. (Not that it comes when I simply long for it.)

      Can we long, and not long?

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  4. I am searching... searching...




    searching for the words to respond to the richness, the poetry of this space.




    All I come up with...






    is Thank you.

    ReplyDelete

"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))