in Polish, the silence- silence, hush, abatement, appeasement, subsidence
A cold paw reached in and touched his fevered forehead. He didn’t react except for a slight tremor in the breath, lay still as a plank of wood, and even in wood, there’s movement. The dog pattered away, tail between his legs, head down, and settled on the worn path between the kitchen door and the stove. He lay on his stomach, sad-eyed head between two huge front paws. His ears monitored any kitchen activity, which was minuscule, known only to him, twitching backward and forward as his eyelids slowly closed, surrendering to the dense quiet. It was a quiet filled with the sound of insects buzzing in orchestral awe, then suddenly quieted. The sound of birds cooing and harmonizing then abruptly drowned in primordial silence.
The night remembers and trusts the inkhead sheep and brown-eyed cows of Scotland’s countryside. It forms a coded black around us as it dissolves into sleep.
June and July passed in a hot silence.
On Sundays, we look for nourishment, paws scratching in the half-damp of the unwatered, dewed garden. Have the deer eaten our flowers yet? A family, bright-eyed, waits in the tall grass beyond the bathroom window. We wink as we mutter as we shade our eyes from the cold,- [humid] light pouring through the clean pane. Looking for comfort in the hours of daylight ahead. Everything in us tilting, waiting, like flowers, towards dark. Flowers whose survival depends on the dark cover of night, the opposite of light, the soothe of the velvet night sky against our bodies.
We try to feel what we feel. And not reach for an easy excuse out of feeling. We try to be whole, meaning whole with experience but it is hard right now, the wonder of what lies ahead, rosebed, if the night will become ours, days and nights of wondering and uncertainty. We’ve grown used to them, this unknown love of the territories, we know this love, in our bones, mouths, around our eyes. It’s weird and inexplicable and wondrous and the wanting and longing and desire are pronounced and jutting, physical, premonition of objects battering at the soft edges of the world.
We were [are?] quiet here.
Right now, we are waiting to turn into something else, like the color of air when a curtain is swept aside. Waiting for alchemy, for the heart to remember its roots.
The blue needle longed for magnetic north.
– Borges, Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius
We will make it through. We are in the water. The loneliness and companionship of water, sunset beyond windows, within view or darkened prematurely by blinds. We’re in that blind and then blinded by a midday sun. There is no loneliness, we tell ourselves, we’re married, we have families, we have jobs. We have people we talk to every day.
The promise of water.
After all this time, I’m still the adolescent girl in my parents’ Dodge, lying down in the backseat, reading, as one or the other of them, usually my mom, bangs on the window, startling me out of a book, demanding I get out of the car and enjoy whatever view of whatever attraction at whatever national park. I’d still rather be in the backseat, reading.
Over the moon and under the sun, my reading encounters Borges and the Map of Uqbar.
Love presupposes language- silent language, one that is felt and heard in the body- we are existences of each other, one silent alphabet that unites all languages, dead and alive, posthumous recognition of the experience of all beings.
Ursprache: primordial language / proto-language
[what is moored in a presupposed or ore-(mineral, water, composite elements of matter)
Pre-imagined – what comes before imagination in the cosmos –
energy is what leads to pure being]
We go, as always, from desire into solitude, from solitude into desire. We unravel the effects of decisions we made in the past.
The new horizon is visible and there is so much light.
We can look at parentheses as a kind of sleep, which would be most accurately described by synonym slumber. What is held in parentheses is a dream. We are not quite sure if it’s physically real or if it is part of some imagined dream world.
The nine copper coins of Zeno are secret history, unknown waters, invisible presences, apparitions, the mystery of what came before and what will come and what is hidden now, the inner seams of the material of time and how it flows within matter, physical bodies, the earth, other planets, and love.
The premonition of objects and the sea.