The reader and writer in me no longer has a place to go, and this despite nearly a half century of books and papers and pens and poesy. Why do I concern myself any longer with haphazard web pages and blog, as if the words might be transmuted into something they can never be—meaningful entities, objets d’art, theoretical proxies, poetry?
To try to wake up from the dream (I’m yawning and blinking in predawn darkness). To help others awake. To help others see.
Perhaps. A noble enough cause, but somewhat conceited too, as if I knew anything. Circumspection and precaution are essential, since words are a narcotic as addictive as methamphetamine or heroin, certain more damaging and deadly. The path one trods must be unhurried and deliberate and stepped mostly in meditation, in reflection, in pensive quietude. Do not think “the sky is blue”—see it! Do not think “the grass is green”—feel it! Do not think “the bird can sing”—hear it!
I step outside.
Delicately knit between two rose bushes, almost invisible, a silken web hovers amidst the scent of attar and garden decay. At the center of the web a spider awaits, in stoic stillness and silence, aware that in time the hunt always comes round to her…
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