Words float under my rib cage, cascade over my heart, and waterfall down my body. It was invisible, but you knew. I could see you reading me.
Like a streak of fish, a discourse of signifiers referring to each other, signifiers whose identities are only their relations to other signifiers, an entire system mediating reality.
The colour; the ocean.
Floating like thought.
But, then.
The discourse into which we are born is a discourse of love, at the depths. Never mind the story.
Love creates itself.
What else do we need?
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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Woman with Flowers 7.1
(7th sketch in series, first iteration of this one) Woman with Flowers Flowers, props upholding the woman. The flowers, fragrant, imaginar...
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The Buddha says: “ You cannot travel the path until you have become the path itself .” The path is uncertain. Uncertainty is the guiding for...
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What if relationships are the primary ordering principle? What if the way relationships are ordered clarify, explain, and instruct us on th...
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direct link: Tones of Noir music: Alex Bailey, ' Piano Improvisation No 7 .' Do poems wait to be born? A poem whittled out of t...
even in the vastness of the ocean currents run with their own colour, their own heat, their own life, both taking from that around them and giving things that are new.
ReplyDeleteLove creates itself.
In that there is the power.
There are times
ReplyDeletewhen I want to
jolt my system,
my brain, my eyes
so I come here
looking for
another Ruby
resting among
the crystals
built by
Brenda
I find them
over
over and
over.
Vexations
Narrator, hmmn, yes. In the throes of some tidal pattern for sure... the oceans, so vast and yet originary.
ReplyDeleteVexations, wonderful to hear from you! I do read you, every post... and I promise to drop in more often.