Saturday, December 2, 2017

The way it is and has been


When I was making the drawing I posted a while ago, it started to rain. It rained heavily enough that I could hear it landing on the roof. Since then, it has slowed to a sprinkle. And when I say slowed, I realize that the individual drops are probably still falling the same speed as when it was raining a bit harder. And when I say harder, I realize I have chosen a funny, if conventional, way of describing something that kisses each leaf, each needle, each blade of grass; each stone, each curb, each round metal drain cover, each mossy mound. So what is it that I am doing, really? What am I trying to say? That I am still alive, that I am still here, and that somehow everything has changed — changed so profoundly that it seems just the same? That I am enjoying my coffee? That it is enjoying me? While I was drawing, I was noticing for perhaps the ten thousandth time how good it felt. And now, while I’m writing, I am noticing the same thing. In both cases, it is a feeling of intimacy, as if my fingers were simultaneously sending and receiving and responding through the touch of warm living tissue and bone and skin. I suppose that sounds crazy. But that is the state I am in, and for as long as I can remember, all the way back to my childhood on the farm, that is the way it has been.



4 comments:

*** said...

"... I am noticing the same thing. In both cases, it is a feeling of intimacy, as if my fingers were simultaneously sending and receiving and responding through the touch of warm living tissue and bone and skin. I suppose that sounds crazy. But that is the state I am in, and for as long as I can remember, all the way back to my childhood on the farm, that is the way it has been."


Intimacy, aye ~

But the flesh loses its grip on rare, momentous, occasions. I remember one morning, as I moved to lift my head from the pillow, the contents of the room moved with me. The outline of my flesh was there, but the edges were blurred and stretched in motion trails streaming from what I had believed to be solid. Suddenly, I was the walls, the windows, the lamps until little me shuddered at the sight of this absence of 'me' moment and wished it all away. The flesh took me back without much of an argument. I was grateful, but still wonder to this day what would have happened if I had allowed 'intimacy' to have its way.

So, crazy you say?

Ah, the rain. Clear, cold, and dry here. But the moon lingers in the daytime sky and has been showering down upon the grass, leaves, and all the rest of us, each night.

William Michaelian said...

What a beautiful note.

Intimacy.

Where does flesh end and spirit begin?

When, really, they are one and the same thing.

And what is that “thing”?

Well, I’d rather not analyze it.

What a beautiful note.

Yes, I know I said that already.

The neighbor across the street is on the roof of his two-story house this morning, hanging lights. He waved at me when I left to buy bananas. He and his wife are a young couple, just starting out. Now the lights are on.

*** said...

I shed a thick skin that day. Now, if I could just shed the heavy weight of dark thoughts that dropped anchor in my soul, long, long ago. Maybe lifetimes in the making - the collecting - fears and shame. Without that burden I may dissolve and float away, just as it felt was happening on that momentous morning.

Maybe I'll fly instead. I don't think I'll need wings, but if I do I'll be carried by crows or maybe by the owl that flew so near to my office window, yesterday morning, that it felt he may take me then and there. Instead he was just saying. "Hey, listen up! Don't type what you're about to type - let it be!"

For now, here I am, still intact as most of us perceive intact to be. And there you are ... we are, somewhere, so it seems, at least.

Last night, I was listening to a faint hooting-song coming from somewhere nearby, in the dark by the light of a very big moon. Me, wingless but drifting as I'm sitting by the sewing lamp. Knit two, purl two, knit two, purl two.

I love bananas - especially the red, miniature variety that taste most like the ones we ate while in Hawaii.

William Michaelian said...

Knit one, peel two . . .

I think of sediment in its many rich layers, and how, out of it, good things grow. . . .