A long time ago, I wrote to you: I am hesitant in revelation. Today is hard. I am semi-determined to not despair. The half-nature and negative construction alludes to much that I am not saying. So we enter an age of paradox, where the door we’ve opened onto the night reveals both light and dark. We are of nature in this. We are both tricksters of the light and perfume sellers.
And of what I told you, I add a postscript:
Words are of service when they are not words. Words of sky and rain. They carry the whole of language, the whole body in them and then let them go. They release meaning and the need for meaning. They sacrifice themselves like insects drowning in water. They are water and the insect becoming part of the water, dissolving and decaying. I write, and language decays. The world pronounces itself from a syllable. There is no difference between me and a syllable.
More of what I could have told you but didn’t:
We are widening into orbs of light. We carry fireflies in our stomach. We try to digest the world, when the world looms large, a closed factory, and our senses reflect more back to us than pain and concrete. We know there is more out there or in here but we’ve lost the thread. We are haliphones; we drink, measure outcomes. We are the worry of the rain. We are its untangling.
In a ceremony, we declared that we are hope and peace. We live within the molecules of rain becoming something else; we become rain when we hold the sky as weightless weight. The weight of water measures death and transformation. We hope and grieve and weather; we make weather from sighs and the space inside. We breathe strangely. We are aliens and constructions of paper and light. We have hope in a strange light that we know is important somehow and comes with a key to decipher it.
We are history. We carry it in us like a desperate orphan. It claws and cries and becomes silent as we look at the future, without listening to its stories. We have so many stories inside us. The truth of the world is in us. The patterning of the sky under the eyelids. The chalky residue of stars in skin. We are residue and completion, returning to water and space.
On Tuesday, I wrote:
The worry of this day.
The worry of the sky.
And, finally, in a letter I never sent:
The ghostly presences in our lives harden against the implacable gloom or magic of imagined pasts and futures. There is no way to know what will happen as we press ourselves into the mystery of the present.
Our mattering lies in our hands like a newborn. We barely know what to do with it but we know so much. We know its first breath and we care for it, making sure it gets enough food and water and air and space. We are nautical engineers under oceans where our descendants learn to make light and food out of water.
You were born.
And at some point, I’ll write this, but I won’t remember:
Moth wings rub together in low light, the light is music, we sit in the shadow where light doesn’t fall. We do not fall. We try not to. All our might, mouth scrunched up in tense exhaustion. We are tired of being scared. Dreamless nights, we wake from a nightmare, the dream was scary in our bones and our body trembles because it’s a kind of truth. The truth of dreams in the bones hums like an animal making breakfast, aware of her surroundings and body and lilt in song. The fire under the kettle, the scream of the kettle, the history of water. But that’s too rough. The dawn shows through a little. The green blinds in the kitchen are lighter with a square outline of morning light. This is safety or security or a semblance of those things, which are theories. We don’t live in theories. Safety can’t be figured out in the mind. After waking from a nightmare, we know that. We feel it in our arms, hearts, beating quiet and rough, in our breath that can’t quite collect itself.
Safety is formed in the cells, which have souls. Every cell has a soul.