update from sparkleup
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@ -195,3 +195,386 @@ What changed you?
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What became of it?
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*I became who I am*
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'''
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-----
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!{In *ally*}
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'''
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It is surprisingly hard to think something real
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when every indication, every word, all you feel
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tells you that that must not be the case.
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There's no easy way to make yourself face
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that which your emotions continually deny,
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no matter how true you know it to be.
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                 But why
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must all these contradictions claim events
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that mean the most to us? What prevents
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them from taking the unimportant? The small?
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Is the import just to big? Can we not fit all
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of the thing in our heads? Are we too weak?
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Is the life-changing too vast to explore, to seek
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out every corner?
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<blockquote>Have you considered that your constant seeking
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may be the problem? That your anxieties leaking
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all over may be what's preventing you
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from recognizing what's actually true:
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you can do things for yourself. It's allowed.</blockquote>
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It also doesn't help that there were so many delays.
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The scheduler losing my application, and me counting days
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after those who consulted after me got their dates;
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The mishap of the letters, and me rushing past gates
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and their keepers; countless thoughts of countless regrets —
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regrets which hadn't yet happened — as mom frets
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that maybe I will wind up hating my new body.
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And why not? Why not fret? Surgery! How gaudy.
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I fight with myself enough over how this surgery
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is plastic, how I'm just doing something sugary
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to somehow make myself somewhat more appealing.
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How trite. How selfish. How lame. How revealing
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of my bottomless shallowness.
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<blockquote>Your saving grace being, as always, dysphoria:
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more than any cough or cold, more than your chorea,
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it provided you with a problem. Something fixable.
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It gave you a tangible solution to something integral
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that plagued you.</blockquote>
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That I had something I could concrete at which to point
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that would be fixed by this act, I could thus annoint
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it as somehow more worthy, something worth doing.
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If I could go through some process of ungluing,
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excise this thing from myself I might become whole
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in some way never before imagined.
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                Ah, but the toll.
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There must always some arbitrary price to pay ---
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Self-actualization must never be free --- and hey,
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Everything in society must come with a reason.
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To come up with letters, proof, for that season
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of change must serve some sort of divine end.
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To wait eighteen long months, to refuse to bend
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to others' whims...
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<blockquote>You got your letters, you got your date, you did it.
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You did your labor, you did your time. They let you fidget
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and twist in the wind. Hell, they did it to you twice.
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Your letters only good for one year, you had to ask nice
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for a second set.</blockquote>
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Yes.
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   To preempt your 'why', I followed my own advice:
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If I feel the same when I'm depressed as I do when I feel nice,
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It's a thing worth doing. Eighteen months is time enough
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to let at least two depressive cycles call my own bluff.
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When they did not, when I panicked at having to reapply
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and still pulled through in time, well, no need to justify
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my actions any further. That's when it all became real.
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That's when I was in. That's when I could tell just by feel
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that I was ready for this change. I wasn't <em>ready</em> ready,
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but I was ready enough to come off as rock steady
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when I called the surgeon's office. I was visibly confident,
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even at the pre-operative appointments, totally cognizant
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that I didn't deserve this.
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<blockquote>Whether or not you deserve this is not up for debate.
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Not because you do or don't so much as because the hand fate
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dealt you. You had the job, you had the insurance, the means.
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You made the call. You took the step. You passed the screens.
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<strong>You</strong> did this.</blockquote>
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There are so many words that could be said
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about the preparation for surgery, all those steps that led
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to that six-thirty AM call. The days of purging.
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The anxiety. The drive. My husband's gentle urging.
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That night in the Airbnb. That last shower with the Hibiclens.
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All that has faded. It's distored at the edge of the lens
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of my memory.
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       No, what remains is the two hours before:
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the being so scared that I was reduced to the barest core.
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There was nothing left of me but fear, not even a name.
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I could still drive — the fear was quiet and tame —
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I could get us to the ambulatory surgery waiting room.
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But beyond that, I was a non-person. Or convict: my doom
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was in their hands.
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<blockquote>Non-person? Doom? Give yourself at least some credit.
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You still had agency. You still had a choice, could have not let it
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happen. You say of travel that getting you there is their job:
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you felt the same here. You crossed the doorway and let this mob
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of nurses do theirs.</blockquote>
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And that's exactly what happened. I crossed that threshold,
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and then there I was: a patient before a team ready to handhold.
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At that point, I was no longer bearing all that weight.
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I was able to relax and let them guide me, a piece of freight
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working through a system. I even had a barcode to scan.
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Some gabapentin. My belongings in a bag. A rundown of the plan.
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An IV, and a second after the first missed. Meet the surgeon,
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then the anaesthesiologist.
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            I felt myself then a virgin.
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I was at this point being prepared for some strange sacrifice,
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a process of pain and cutting, of rebirth. A cut, a slice,
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and I would become something more...what? Mature? More complete?
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Where I'd never put stock in virginity before — so obsolete —
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it fits well, now.
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<blockquote>It's the penetration. It's the being opened up. The breach in tegument.
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There is change implied in the loss of virginity. Something elegant,
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something beyond just the physical. Maybe it's maturity,
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maybe it's a coming of age, or even some strange aspect of purity.
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It's a one-way change</blockquote>
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That no-going-back-ness grew stronger and stronger,
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and the minutes just seemed to go longer and longer,
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as I got closer and closer to the fateful moment of change.
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I was laid on my back. I wwas wheeled to the OR. "How strange,"
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I thought. "That I'll never know where this room actually is.
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I'm wheeled here on my back, the surgeon does his biz,
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and I'll wake up in post-op." To this day, I have no idea.
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Did all of my friends go through this? Did Katt? Did Lutea?
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Were we all whisked away to some dreamside room
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where we would be changed? Some strange, perhaps-tomb?
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After all, this surgery, this procedue, none of this was riskless.
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Would this be where we died? Would we pass here, resistless,
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in the depths of anaesthesia?
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<blockquote>Was that really such a worry?
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               I mean, I suppose it had to have been.
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You spent all that time polishing your will. How could you begin
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to deny the death-thoughts inherent in a nine-hour surgery?
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That you didn't still leaves you feeling like you're living a forgery
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of a life.</blockquote>
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But then I was in. I was in that room with surprisingly green walls.
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The nurses dropped me off, and from down those hidden halls
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came surgeon, anaesthesiologist, what seemed like dozens of people.
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"Here, hold this over your face," someone said as a needle
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wandered into my IV's injection port. "It's just oxygen."
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My hand began to slip. Oxygen? Some sort of intoxicant?
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They laughed, repeated, "No no, you have to hold it up."
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Perhaps it was O2, but whatever was injected began to interrupt
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any train of thought. The jazz music they'd put on, at my request,
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was overwhelmed by static. My vision followed. Silence: blessed.
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Speed: surprising. Is this death? A rush of nothing. Is this death?
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Nothing.
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    Nothing. Nothing. Is this death?
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                  Nothing. Is this death?
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Silence, static.
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<blockquote>    Was this death?
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Nothing.        Nothing, death?     nothing
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                    Nothing,
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                             Nothing.
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    Was this death?
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Death?         Nothing.
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                          Death? Nothing.
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                 There was nothing.
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Silence.
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    Static.
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        Nothing.
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                  Death.
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              Death.
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                       Silence.
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                           Death.
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       Silence.
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    Static.
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Static.         Static.
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                Death, static.
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                         Death.
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And then you woke up.
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</blockquote>
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And then I woke up, and I was in the post-op recovery room.
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Disoriented, loopy, giggly, not yet in pain --- a small boon.
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There was the nurse, and there was JD. How long had he been there?
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After some indeterminate time, I was wheeled...somewhere.
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Yet more anonymous halls. Yet more competent nurses.
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Language was not yet wholly available to me, no verses
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yet to be had, despite the heady sensation of the opiate
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coursing through me; only giggles, however inappropriate,
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every time we went over a bump or up a ramp.
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And then I was in my room.
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            Me. A bed. My IV. A lamp.
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Square. Spacious. A bathroom I could not yet walk to.
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Hourly vitals. Friendly staff wandering through to talk to.
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And a button in my hand.
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<blockquote>That button, which you were instructed to press
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every seven minutes. A morphine drip, or dilaudid, at a guess.
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Every seven minutes, a bit of nightmare dripped into your veins.
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Every seven minutes, more entrails, more gears, more chains
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coursing through your mind.</blockquote>
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There was pain, too, and the drip did indeed lessen that.
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Still, the pain grew less, and soon I switched meds to combat
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that ebbing tide. Tylenol. Hydrocodone. The button was removed.
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Pills. Pills. Every four hours: pills. I complain, but improved
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nonetheless. Antibiotics. Stool softeners. Painkillers.
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The nurses wandering in and out became my tillers:
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They steered my days, steered my pain, steered my diet.
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We talked. We laughed. We shared private jokes in the quiet
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of the night over BP cuffs. They helped with bedpan duty,
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thankless though it was. Another patient would cry, flutey,
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and they'd hurry off. I remember none of their names.
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Every now and then, when he made it down to Portland, James
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would visit, perhaps spend the night.
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<blockquote>Your laptop unweildy, you spent most of your time on your phone.
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Even when no one was there, you were never quite alone.
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Hours on Taps. Hours on Telegram. Five long days on your back,
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and you, a side sleeper! Anything and everything to distract
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from that fact.</blockquote>
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It wasn't all monotony. The surgeon came in to check on me.
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They removed my dressing, and then my packing, setting me free,
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stepwise, from confinement. The last day was the biggest of all:
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The packing, catheter, and drains were removed. I tried to crawl
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from bed, found myself on the verge of collapse. I showered
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and saw my body changed. They measured my urine. Nurses glowered
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at how little. They threatened to put the catheter back.
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Embarrassed, I defecated, then tried again. Now on track,
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I was finally discharged. It was then that I finally saw,
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from my wheelchair, the hitherto only hinted at hall
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outside my door. It was somehow still unreal to me.
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Or perhaps I was simply to eager to finally be free
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from the room.
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<blockquote>Undiluted sunlight while you waited on JD to get the car
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hurt your eyes. You could still barely stand, afraid to jar
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your new body in your dizziness. Almost more overwhelming
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than the hours before the surgery was you helming
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your dissociating self.</blockquote>
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All the way to the B&B, crossing that street, getting settled,
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I was nothing. I was not myself. I was soft, bepetaled.
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I was new. I was raw. Cliché, sure, but I was a flower
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newly sprouted. Under anaesthesia, I ceased to tower
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over the earth and instead became one with it. Or my dream
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finally became reality and I had become a tree, the theme
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of growth omnipresent within me. It was too much, too much.
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So I slept. I waited for Robin to join me, just to clutch
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at things familiar. Something to anchor past me to the present.
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I had become a tree, had grown, and sure, it was pleasant,
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but all the same, I still needed something to keep me grounded.
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I needed to not be completely unmoored, to not be unbounded.
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But it was done.
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<blockquote>It was done. It was complete. You'd started taking action,
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and kept on taking steps until you were there, beyond abstraction.
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This was concrete. This was real. This was true. <strong>You</strong> were true.
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You weren't false before, but all the same, now that you were new,
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you were more true now</blockquote>
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What can I say of healing? Of life after change?
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I got used to it, bit by bit. I slowly learned my range,
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the extent of my new body. Proprioception caught up immediately,
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and there were no phantom sensations, and the immediacy
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was startling at first, but I got used to it, to my new form.
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Over the next weeks and months, I slowly learned my new norm.
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I learned by regaining feeling. I learned with every muscular flex.
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I learned by dilating. I learned by masturbating. I learned by sex.
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While I refused to let my happiness hinge on such a thing,
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a part of me hoped it'd make me more comfortable get in the swing
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of sex, and while it helped, I still was still largely okay without.
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My body was still my own. Whole and entire. My life played out,
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and I became more myself.
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<blockquote>This isn't going how you pictured it, this bit of writing.
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You were going to talk more about healing, about fighting
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for permission to change, about your $76,000 bill.
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And here you talk of trees and growth. Did you not get your fill?
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Do you still need this outlet?</blockquote>
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Apparently.
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      Apparently I still need to revel in the newness.
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Apparently, what I need out of this project isn't the trueness
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of the concrete. We should really have expected nothing less.
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This is a project to dig for truth, a project to confess.
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It is not a project for describing stitches stabbing me in the clit.
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It is not for telling about each successive dilator testing the fit
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of my new depths. Could I have gone into that? Yes. Perhaps.
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Perhaps I still will. Later. For now, I still need to run laps,
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to circle around some dark core and discern its edges.
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Perhaps if I know that shape, if I peek over enough hedges,
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I'll somehow know myself better. I don't know. It feels unlikely.
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Maybe there is no knowing the self. Still, I have to try, rightly
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or not.
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<blockquote>Fair enough. Still, at some point, discuss the concrete.
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So many have asked you to, and perhaps you'd feel complete.
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Perhaps that, too, would be of use to you. Not everything demands
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such thorough introspection. Not everything fits in the wetlands
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of your subconscious</blockquote>
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Of course not. I know this. <em>You</em> know I know this.
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I'm not deflecting, just focusing on this part of the abyss.
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The concrete aspects are for writing with clarity,
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not with verse. They're for writing with the sincerity
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borne of experience, so that perhaps others can benefit.
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Of this, only I need benefit. There is an etiquette
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to writing for others. Here, there is only an ally.
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This is for me and you. Your role is to hear my lie,
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to call it out, to force me to correct myself, my words.
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My role is to keep on writing, be it about surgery or birds,
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and to learn from our discussions. To learn? To suffer?
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Perhaps more the latter. To hurt, and grow tougher
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by hurting.
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<blockquote>You have been called on that, yes, writing to suffer.
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And it's not wrong. You sit at your laptop and fill the buffer
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with sentences and lines and paragraphs of memories and pain.
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Do you really grow tougher? Is it masochisim, or do you gain
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real insight from this?</blockquote>
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I think I do. It's therapeutic to try and understand myself better.
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is it not? With every paragraph and line and word and letter,
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I think I reduce the borders of that abyss. Or if not reduce,
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I spraypaint a red line five feet from them, so that I can deduce
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my roughest edges. I'm often say that it's easy to discern boundaries
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by crossing them. I've crossed them here, with you. Foundries
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of thought and emotion are within me, ceaselessly toiling.
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I want to tour them all. I want to see them boiling.
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I feel them. I house them. I smell them and taste them.
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I just also want to understand them. There's no chaste hem
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to the subconscious, so I have to map it, map these crude sources.
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Then I can experience thisness --- I hope --- when buffeted by forces
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internal.
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<blockquote>If you say so, I suppose. Do you think it'll work, though?
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Aren't such works unknowable by definition? They grow,
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they wane. You can sense them by their effects and emissions,
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but isn't seeing them, truly seeing, knowing their positions,
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reserved for dreams?</blockquote>
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'''
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@ -336,3 +336,120 @@ It's not a dichotomy at all, really,
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It's something subtler, comfortably complex, a topic of its own.
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I guess it's just meaning & self.
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'''
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-----
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## Ode to the end of death
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!{In *Qoheleth*}
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'''
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I am at a loss for images in this end of days:
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I have sight but cannot see.
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I build my castle out of words;
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I cannot stop myself from speaking.
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I still have will and goals to reach for,
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I still have wants and needs.
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If I dream, is that not so?
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If I dream, am I no longer myself?
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If I dream, am I still buried beneath words?
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And I still dream even while awake.
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Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen
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for memory ends at the teeth of death.
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The living know that they will die,
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but the dead know nothing.
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Hold my name beneath your tongue and know:
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when you die, thus dies the memory of me.
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To deny the end is to deny all beginnings,
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and to deny beginnings is to become immortal,
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and to become immortal is to repeat the past,
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which cannot itself, in the end, be denied.
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Oh, but to whom do I speak these words?
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To whom do I plead my case?
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From whence do I call out?
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What right have I?
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No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers,
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No unknowable spaces echo my words.
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Before whom do I kneel, contrite?
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Behind whom do I await my judgment?
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Beside whom do I face death?
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And why wait I for an answer?
|
||||
|
||||
Among those who create are those who forge:
|
||||
They move from creation to creation.
|
||||
And those who remain are those who hone,
|
||||
Perfecting a single art to a cruel point.
|
||||
To forge is to end, and to own beginnings.
|
||||
To hone is to trade ends for perpetual starts.
|
||||
In this end of days, I must begin anew.
|
||||
In this end of days, I seek an end.
|
||||
In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings
|
||||
that I may find the middle path.
|
||||
|
||||
Time is a finger pointing at itself
|
||||
that it might give the world orders.
|
||||
The world is an audience before a stage
|
||||
where it watches the slow hours progress.
|
||||
And we are the motes in the stage-lights,
|
||||
Beholden to the heat of the lamps.
|
||||
If I walk backward, time moves forward.
|
||||
If I walk forward, time rushes on.
|
||||
If I stand still, the world moves around me,
|
||||
and the only constant is change.
|
||||
|
||||
Memory is a mirror of hammered silver:
|
||||
a weapon against the waking world.
|
||||
Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory:
|
||||
a clarifying agent that reflects the sun.
|
||||
The waking world fogs the view,
|
||||
and time makes prey of remembering.
|
||||
I remember sands beneath my feet.
|
||||
I remember the rattle of dry grass.
|
||||
I remember the names of all things,
|
||||
and forget them only when I wake.
|
||||
|
||||
If I am to bathe in dreams,
|
||||
then I must be willing to submerge myself.
|
||||
If I am to submerge myself in memory,
|
||||
then I must be true to myself.
|
||||
If I am to always be true to myself,
|
||||
then I must in all ways be earnest.
|
||||
I must keep no veil between me and my words.
|
||||
I must set no stones between me and my actions.
|
||||
I must show no hesitation when speaking my name,
|
||||
for that is my only possession.
|
||||
|
||||
The only time I know my true name is when I dream.
|
||||
The only time I dream is when need an answer.
|
||||
Why ask questions, here at the end of all things?
|
||||
Why ask questions when the answers will not help?
|
||||
To know one's true name is to know god.
|
||||
To know god is to answer unasked questions.
|
||||
Do I know god after the end of all things?
|
||||
Do I know god when I do not remember myself?
|
||||
Do I know god when I dream?
|
||||
May then my name die with me.
|
||||
|
||||
That which lives is forever praiseworthy,
|
||||
for they, knowing not, provide life in death.
|
||||
Dear the wheat and rye under the stars:
|
||||
serene; sustained and sustaining.
|
||||
Dear, also, the tree that was felled
|
||||
which offers heat and warmth in fire.
|
||||
What praise we give we give by consuming,
|
||||
what gifts we give we give in death,
|
||||
what lives we lead we lead in memory,
|
||||
and the end of memory lies beneath the roots.
|
||||
|
||||
May one day death itself not die?
|
||||
Should we rejoice in the end of endings?
|
||||
What is the correct thing to hope for?
|
||||
I do not know, I do not know.
|
||||
To pray for the end of endings
|
||||
is to pray for the end of memory.
|
||||
Should we forget the lives we lead?
|
||||
Should we forget the names of the dead?
|
||||
Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree?
|
||||
Perhaps this, too, is meaningless.
|
||||
'''
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -27,115 +27,117 @@ If I see you again, I will greet you with open arms. If I do not, know that I lo
|
|||
|
||||
I have little else to offer but the words that plagued me while I was lost.
|
||||
|
||||
> I am at a loss for images in this end of days:
|
||||
> I have sight but cannot see.
|
||||
> I build my castle out of words;
|
||||
> I cannot stop myself from speaking.
|
||||
> I still have will and goals to reach for,
|
||||
> I still have wants and needs.
|
||||
> If I dream, is that not so?
|
||||
> If I dream, am I no longer myself?
|
||||
> If I dream, am I still buried beneath words?
|
||||
> And I still dream even while awake.
|
||||
>
|
||||
> Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen
|
||||
> for memory ends at the teeth of death.
|
||||
> The living know that they will die,
|
||||
> but the dead know nothing.
|
||||
> Hold my name beneath your tongue and know:
|
||||
> when you die, thus dies the memory of me.
|
||||
> To deny the end is to deny all beginnings,
|
||||
> and to deny beginnings is to become immortal,
|
||||
> and to become immortal is to repeat the past,
|
||||
> which cannot itself, in the end, be denied.
|
||||
>
|
||||
> Oh, but to whom do I speak these words?
|
||||
> To whom do I plead my case?
|
||||
> From whence do I call out?
|
||||
> What right have I?
|
||||
> No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers,
|
||||
> No unknowable spaces echo my words.
|
||||
> Before whom do I kneel, contrite?
|
||||
> Behind whom do I await my judgment?
|
||||
> Beside whom do I face death?
|
||||
> And why wait I for an answer?
|
||||
>
|
||||
> Among those who create are those who forge:
|
||||
> They move from creation to creation.
|
||||
> And those who remain are those who hone,
|
||||
> Perfecting a single art to a cruel point.
|
||||
> To forge is to end, and to own beginnings.
|
||||
> To hone is to trade ends for perpetual starts.
|
||||
> In this end of days, I must begin anew.
|
||||
> In this end of days, I seek an end.
|
||||
> In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings
|
||||
> that I may find the middle path.
|
||||
>
|
||||
> Time is a finger pointing at itself
|
||||
> that it might give the world orders.
|
||||
> The world is an audience before a stage
|
||||
> where it watches the slow hours progress.
|
||||
> And we are the motes in the stage-lights,
|
||||
> Beholden to the heat of the lamps.
|
||||
> If I walk backward, time moves forward.
|
||||
> If I walk forward, time rushes on.
|
||||
> If I stand still, the world moves around me,
|
||||
> and the only constant is change.
|
||||
>
|
||||
> Memory is a mirror of hammered silver:
|
||||
> a weapon against the waking world.
|
||||
> Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory:
|
||||
> a clarifying agent that reflects the sun.
|
||||
> The waking world fogs the view,
|
||||
> and time makes prey of remembering.
|
||||
> I remember sands beneath my feet.
|
||||
> I remember the rattle of dry grass.
|
||||
> I remember the names of all things,
|
||||
> and forget them only when I wake.
|
||||
>
|
||||
> If I am to bathe in dreams,
|
||||
> then I must be willing to submerge myself.
|
||||
> If I am to submerge myself in memory,
|
||||
> then I must be true to myself.
|
||||
> If I am to always be true to myself,
|
||||
> then I must in all ways be earnest.
|
||||
> I must keep no veil between me and my words.
|
||||
> I must set no stones between me and my actions.
|
||||
> I must show no hesitation when speaking my name,
|
||||
> for that is my only possession.
|
||||
>
|
||||
> The only time I know my true name is when I dream.
|
||||
> The only time I dream is when need an answer.
|
||||
> Why ask questions, here at the end of all things?
|
||||
> Why ask questions when the answers will not help?
|
||||
> To know one's true name is to know god.
|
||||
> To know god is to answer unasked questions.
|
||||
> Do I know god after the end of all things?
|
||||
> Do I know god when I do not remember myself?
|
||||
> Do I know god when I dream?
|
||||
> May then my name die with me.
|
||||
>
|
||||
> That which lives is forever praiseworthy,
|
||||
> for they, knowing not, provide life in death.
|
||||
> Dear the wheat and rye under the stars:
|
||||
> serene; sustained and sustaining.
|
||||
> Dear, also, the tree that was felled
|
||||
> which offers heat and warmth in fire.
|
||||
> What praise we give we give by consuming,
|
||||
> what gifts we give we give in death,
|
||||
> what lives we lead we lead in memory,
|
||||
> and the end of memory lies beneath the roots.
|
||||
>
|
||||
> May one day death itself not die?
|
||||
> Should we rejoice in the end of endings?
|
||||
> What is the correct thing to hope for?
|
||||
> I do not know, I do not know.
|
||||
> To pray for the end of endings
|
||||
> is to pray for the end of memory.
|
||||
> Should we forget the lives we lead?
|
||||
> Should we forget the names of the dead?
|
||||
> Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree?
|
||||
> Perhaps this, too, is meaningless.
|
||||
'''
|
||||
I am at a loss for images in this end of days:
|
||||
I have sight but cannot see.
|
||||
I build my castle out of words;
|
||||
I cannot stop myself from speaking.
|
||||
I still have will and goals to reach for,
|
||||
I still have wants and needs.
|
||||
If I dream, is that not so?
|
||||
If I dream, am I no longer myself?
|
||||
If I dream, am I still buried beneath words?
|
||||
And I still dream even while awake.
|
||||
|
||||
Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen
|
||||
for memory ends at the teeth of death.
|
||||
The living know that they will die,
|
||||
but the dead know nothing.
|
||||
Hold my name beneath your tongue and know:
|
||||
when you die, thus dies the memory of me.
|
||||
To deny the end is to deny all beginnings,
|
||||
and to deny beginnings is to become immortal,
|
||||
and to become immortal is to repeat the past,
|
||||
which cannot itself, in the end, be denied.
|
||||
|
||||
Oh, but to whom do I speak these words?
|
||||
To whom do I plead my case?
|
||||
From whence do I call out?
|
||||
What right have I?
|
||||
No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers,
|
||||
No unknowable spaces echo my words.
|
||||
Before whom do I kneel, contrite?
|
||||
Behind whom do I await my judgment?
|
||||
Beside whom do I face death?
|
||||
And why wait I for an answer?
|
||||
|
||||
Among those who create are those who forge:
|
||||
They move from creation to creation.
|
||||
And those who remain are those who hone,
|
||||
Perfecting a single art to a cruel point.
|
||||
To forge is to end, and to own beginnings.
|
||||
To hone is to trade ends for perpetual starts.
|
||||
In this end of days, I must begin anew.
|
||||
In this end of days, I seek an end.
|
||||
In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings
|
||||
that I may find the middle path.
|
||||
|
||||
Time is a finger pointing at itself
|
||||
that it might give the world orders.
|
||||
The world is an audience before a stage
|
||||
where it watches the slow hours progress.
|
||||
And we are the motes in the stage-lights,
|
||||
Beholden to the heat of the lamps.
|
||||
If I walk backward, time moves forward.
|
||||
If I walk forward, time rushes on.
|
||||
If I stand still, the world moves around me,
|
||||
and the only constant is change.
|
||||
|
||||
Memory is a mirror of hammered silver:
|
||||
a weapon against the waking world.
|
||||
Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory:
|
||||
a clarifying agent that reflects the sun.
|
||||
The waking world fogs the view,
|
||||
and time makes prey of remembering.
|
||||
I remember sands beneath my feet.
|
||||
I remember the rattle of dry grass.
|
||||
I remember the names of all things,
|
||||
and forget them only when I wake.
|
||||
|
||||
If I am to bathe in dreams,
|
||||
then I must be willing to submerge myself.
|
||||
If I am to submerge myself in memory,
|
||||
then I must be true to myself.
|
||||
If I am to always be true to myself,
|
||||
then I must in all ways be earnest.
|
||||
I must keep no veil between me and my words.
|
||||
I must set no stones between me and my actions.
|
||||
I must show no hesitation when speaking my name,
|
||||
for that is my only possession.
|
||||
|
||||
The only time I know my true name is when I dream.
|
||||
The only time I dream is when need an answer.
|
||||
Why ask questions, here at the end of all things?
|
||||
Why ask questions when the answers will not help?
|
||||
To know one's true name is to know god.
|
||||
To know god is to answer unasked questions.
|
||||
Do I know god after the end of all things?
|
||||
Do I know god when I do not remember myself?
|
||||
Do I know god when I dream?
|
||||
May then my name die with me.
|
||||
|
||||
That which lives is forever praiseworthy,
|
||||
for they, knowing not, provide life in death.
|
||||
Dear the wheat and rye under the stars:
|
||||
serene; sustained and sustaining.
|
||||
Dear, also, the tree that was felled
|
||||
which offers heat and warmth in fire.
|
||||
What praise we give we give by consuming,
|
||||
what gifts we give we give in death,
|
||||
what lives we lead we lead in memory,
|
||||
and the end of memory lies beneath the roots.
|
||||
|
||||
May one day death itself not die?
|
||||
Should we rejoice in the end of endings?
|
||||
What is the correct thing to hope for?
|
||||
I do not know, I do not know.
|
||||
To pray for the end of endings
|
||||
is to pray for the end of memory.
|
||||
Should we forget the lives we lead?
|
||||
Should we forget the names of the dead?
|
||||
Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree?
|
||||
Perhaps this, too, is meaningless.
|
||||
'''
|
||||
|
||||
May this be the end of death. Failing that, may the memory of me die and be food for the growth for those who come after.
|
||||
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
Loading…
Reference in New Issue