I don’t know if you know this, but often I write to you and then off I go, writing to you which is You, capitalized. And you become the You I speak to when writing in my head. It’s an intimacy, I think…
and so I write tonight… to you…and You
I am reading Aldous Huxley’s Perennial Philosophy right now and am walking through some wild stuff. I think I’m beginning a sort of quest. I feel that way anyway…almost like I can see a path clearing out before me but everything is kind of hazy on the sides and fish-bowled.
At the same time, alongside Huxley, I am reading two books about Play…”Playing and Reality” by D. W. Winnicot and”Toys and Reason” by Erik Erikson.
Also, on top of all that, I am continuing with William Carlos Williams “Paterson”
I seem to find things drift toward me as though I am walking with my hands down to my sides and then up they go, slowly, my arms in small gestures, hoping that a signal will be cast, signs will stumble on to my path.
That’s what happened with the combination of books (as all of my studies seem to arrive). Huxley was sent by a friend in the mail, Patterson, byWCW, was randomly purchased at Barnes and Noble in Midland. And both “Play” books were left sitting at my “spot” in the library. (I have a specific area in the basement that I prefer to sit, a place where ghosts and gods peek out from time to time if I glance over just in time. It seems to be where I am most relaxed, breathing a concentrated rhythm into the air, a pulse, a meditation. My holding station, my wagon-shed that happens to be full of stardust and just enough of the cosmos’ residual imagination that I lick off the desk when no one is looking). Anyway, some previous student had been reading the books, I presume, and left them piled up for me to find.
How we feel a connection with others through books. I imagine all of the hands that have held the various library books as I pull them off the shelf. If I were a library book, I’d love to feel that gentle tug on my spine, scraping against my neighbors like one in a row of teeth. It’s quite intimate: a lover’s teeth while kissing and you happen to brush up against their set…two sets, a set of impossible combinations…like so many books–worlds bound up and separated from one another. How one book’s words cannot mingle with another’s bound words, so to our inner lives remain intact, never touching, though we make love or recite our fears and inner dialogues….
So I am trudging through, though sleep evades me. And the tea steams by my bedside and I think of You and of Huxley and of God, or by that I mean my recent mind-wanderings and how I think of what I should do to see the world as God. Not the Church, but Nature, You and me, dust-mites and swarming anthills who have no idea of the gorgeous pine trees above us the galaxies that expose millions of belly-lights so that we can walk and converse and switch on our blackberries, dream, wake, garden and do it all over again in succession of two’s and three’s.
And here I am dissociating again. Did you know that I thought about You today? I would like to recall five times, but each time could be six times within itself. A moment of one thought could be a cluster of minute-marble-moments and within them, more.
So don’t feel alone, or lonely. Like You, my feet hurt at the end of the day, from walking around in patterns I have yet to decipher.