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

Monday, September 30, 2013

this world, this feather, this mouth: grinding the lens

it is not to wag a flag that we make art, if art is what it is that we make.  it is to be here. 

Spinoza ground lenses to afford himself the breadth to think and write.  i wake and lay into the side of my spirit in the hopes of grinding this lens of my being.  perhaps i will only ever create lowly things which might afford a moment for the world to show herself as the world.  if this be my poverty, then i am rich.

i wake up.  i find a feather touched with dew.  i wake up further. 

it is at least another hour before i break free from the reverie of feather.

i don't know what it is that i have learned but i know that i've learned something.

i am conflicted about posting here but then i am conflicted in life about a great deal.  my last post was to (perhaps) have been the last, however, i find i have no conflict with the feather and i am driven madly to sing her.