I slip back into solitude like skin of bathwater.
The importance of coming back to the center of things, like a small curling inward, a soft flutter.
Because isn’t my heart broken each time I walk out the door each morning? Having left my sleep. The echoes inside a brain as in a cavern.
There is a song I’m listening to: “I forget myself when I’m not with you.”
Seems funny. It’s the opposite with me. Unless the you is You.
God / I am the center. Synonymous
with myself, having a touch-stone into my ribs.
Rilke seemed to get it.
“Think of the world you carry inside you–be attentive to that which rises up in you…What goes on in your innermost being is worthy of your whole love; you must somehow keep working at it…Only the individual that who is solitary is like a thing placed…
So it is again. A cycle.
I leave and come back, shift. How else would I wander out into the distance, gathering things on the hem, skirting like a wild, and lost man ray?
Jellyfish of the mind, a blue-drift,
as though aimless. But even a clown fish, unanchored to a reef, cannot drift, not really, in that purely aimless way–the tide has its hand in things.
As does the cosmos have its hand on me, though I think I’m wherever a map has been shredded.
God, I would love to break through one of those geological maps, or the cartographer’s graft. Just to prove my point.
“For do you not see how everything that happens keeps on being a beginning, and could it not be His beginning, since beginning is in itself so beautiful?”
I look back and think I’ve had more gathered in my arms than I do now. Perhaps that’s not a bad thing–emptying is necessary to take in newer dust-babies / dustlings.
My older ones glisten. Glitter stuck to backs — it does not fall, the dust from the other world.
The bliss of this moment. Body warm from the bath, books like yellow boxes, lit up,
ready at my side–Just this. Where I am alive,
no matter what point in which cycle I’m in, isn’t it still generous?
Even the deepest sadness that keeps me far from realizing joy. Even then, when I’m sunk in a self-deceptive blue, even then.
How that is necessary–to feel, reach out to You.
Do you know I love that in you is my other eyelid, closing? And somewhere, in me, a hive of Yours and yours.
So I ponder the cycles, or accept them and
embrace the body and restless mind, wandering jellyfish that it is.
I will write, will be under white space,
looking up, again.