Thursday, January 30, 2014

the linguistics of existence

each word exists so that we might break out of it
glom, glock, gloze

black birds fly, black mold grows absence

god says live and breathes time across the field like the magician's hand
             and everything begins dying

do you think i'd have amounted to anything if my mother had said sit?

(oops, here i sit typing.  my mother forgot to imagine.)

the small red dot on the fence by the field tells me to stay out, go

but i jump the fence and run these dying haunches

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

journal, a run to the lake which is not birch lake, january 29

days and weeks of severe cold breaks and i run beneath a blue sky emblazoned with sunlight

*the heavy heads of sunflowers supplicant beneath the weight of snow
*the apple tree present in itself and again against the snow in shadow
*clouds passing overhead, rolling the contours of snowy fields, and i know, breathtakingly i know (such pain i feel, such disbelief in my eyes at the evidence of such beauty) my lover's skin, my tender love forever laid upon my retreating (into adulthood) children - i know the passing light as the same thing as love and time
*again, red berries

gratitude for this fine enough and foolish body

clean-up, aisle four

i am a macaroni and cheese woman, socks and stink and smile.
i have grill cheese children, a hunk of ham husband.
we live in a cardboard box, easily collapsible, recyclable.
at night i tuck my children into the proverbial frying pan.
i put my greasy hands all over my husband.
we all settle in for a kind of long drawn slaughter,
philosophies spitting like bacon,
my lily-livered heart quaking,
the great consumption always about to begin.

Monday, January 27, 2014

at the falls and beyond

at least four feet of standing snow, -30 wind chill, a mile or so in and then further.  snowshoes.  work.   to behold this world - nothing can prepare us for this privilege.  that's what all of this is - privilege.

before i'm gone i practice placing my dust upon the world



"All These Photographs Are Me"

"

Perishable, sentimental, my perishable self

To give you.  all I risk losing.  you lose it.

I'll not always be like the world.

Me too, I've been the world.

A splitting image, you could mistake us.

   I don't disperse the shadows of oblivion.  I try for dazzling
flashes outside memory.  contraband hard to tell from pure recall.

  Come in, stay with me in my inner childhood, on the other
slope of time.

"

from some thing black, jacques roubaud of alix cleo roubaud

Sunday, January 26, 2014

a scene from the woman alone

somehow i become evident in his absence,
the i of my body rising to the top and settling there 
obvious 
as though i am the foreign body to myself,
forgotten,
and remembered only upon his removal.
isn't that foolish?
isn't that non sensible?
i find myself in front of a mirror holding my face
as though i hold the skeleton of a bird
or its egg
and i might, if i do not carefully control my mind,
crush it.


Friday, January 24, 2014

fuck poetry, i

the pomegranate torn asunder
from form - the riven cells
the delectable mystery driven into

who might resist the pomegranate
singing the deep skinned solemn truth
in its sweetly seductive everyday apparel

just as body suggests fuck suggests penetrate 
and demands - more and deeper
just as this moment shyly quakes, take me and tear me open




(*from galway kinnell's "The Waking":

"...earth-creatures
who live and - here maybe no other word will do -
fuck one another forever if possible across the stars.
An ancient word, formed perhaps before the sacred and the profane had split apart,
when the tongue was like the flame of the heart
in the mouth, and lighted each word
as it was spoken, to remind it
to remember..."

*and holyhell, this from rilke`s  Letters to a Young Poet after i have felt and thought and articulated this small poem about the pomegranate:

``Physical pleasure is a sensual experience no different from pure seeing or the pure sensation with which a fine fruit fills the tongue; it is a great unending experience, which is given us, a knowing of the world, the fullness and the glory of all knowing.``)

Thursday, January 23, 2014

corpus

language 
draws the body ironically, 
the living cadaver, 
to the middle of the floor  

and it remains as chalk marks 
once the body has been removed.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

amor fati (while waiting in the doctor's office, my son leaning against me)

dear god, as follows, the list of things i want:

my daughter is
and so i can ask for nothing

my son is
and so i can ask for nothing

my lover is
and so i can ask for nothing

look!  how i wake into this fine day!

journal, at the back window in the kitchen, january 22, 2014

can we help that which we long for? can we alter it or alter our longing?  or can we only lean in and in and in and try harder to identify what it is that we long for?

i can not help that i am without ambition to look outward.  my longing asks me to look inward more and more quietly, to step aside so that i might see, or to step further into myself so that i might raise my own hand ...

i tremble on the verge of touching ...

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

winter's girl

your denying it
has no weight against
the fact that you need her

she lives in the deep white forest
she wears red
her pale mouth is a flower

you search the forest
blind, drunk, lost, self-deceiving
you're death-desperate 
                               and love your empty longing hands

finding her is essential
not finding her is essential
this is your life

Monday, January 20, 2014

notes from the car, driving back from indiana in this new year, 2014

me:  "if you could choose any house in the world to live in what would it look like and where would it be?"

my son:  "a pagoda.  in (*this small town)."

                and then as an after breath he adds quietly, "or the red house".

we lived my son's most precious youth in the red house.  many happy things happened there.  many sad.  many gravely momentous occurrences like making bread and spreading butter on it, growing carrots, getting out of the bathtub with jiggly toddler bum cheeks, going to sleep kissed by both parents, being scared at unnamed sounds which moved through the house and remained forever unnamed, being chased by a foolish mother through fear and into laughter, puddles in springtime and spoons with which to (failingly, lovingly failingly) drain them.  often the wind chimes on the front porch made sound.  often wood burned in the fire.  whether it is in the form of a pagoda (the red house in disguise) or as the red house itself, my son longs to return to that which he may never return to.

***

on the radio a brave Masai woman talks about her clitoris being cut off in the ceremony of female genital mutilation.  she is 14 and will be married soon, has been pledged to her future husband since the age of 5. there are four people in the car listening, myself, 43, my new husband, 50, my son, 11, and my daughter, 13.

as though asking what time it is my daughter asks what a clitoris is.  i tell her.  with a few words i explain that the so-called ceremony is an act of power of man over woman but i am quiet quickly so that we all might listen to this very important kind of story, the most important kind, real.

when my daughter was born there was a powder blue clip tied to the umbilical cord which had been cut between us.  it struck me as so odd how powder blue the plastic clip was, so foreign to the wounded flesh it held closed, which would soon turn hard and purple, and then fall off.  they were trying to fool me with that powder blue, to distance me from the blood, to temper it.

i kept the clip holding the sprig of our connection.  i put it into a box and forgot about it until this morning.  i sit at the kitchen island drinking coffee, my daughter having stomped off to school earlier this morning.  i smile.  she was tired and tried to convince me she needed to sleep in.  it did not work. school was waiting.

the Masai woman never did marry the man she was pledged to.  instead she had struck a deal with her father, her clitoris (which was the equivalent of his village face, the opportunity for him to not bear retribution for his daughter's obstinate decisions against the current culture) in return for an opportunity for education.

we are still connected in so many ways, mother to daughter, our gender to our gender, all women to the Masai woman, each of us to our own bodily Desire, us to the desire to hold the power of being woman. the clip still holding the umbilical cord remnant, small and sharp now like a guitar pick or a piece of old gristle gone dry in a kitchen window, remains in the box somewhere.  but i want to dismiss the clip and only remember that most important fragment, the cord itself, its realness and all that has passed through it. as women we want real things, first and foremost to own our bodies.  next, to own the potential of our futures.

Friday, January 17, 2014

the damned moment of momentous possibility,"the wheel", (*insert month), (*insert day), (*insert year)

so this is how it goes.  it does not change.  i sleep.  i wake up. i look upon a central spot in my body which does not exist.  i yearn. i need the black spot to find the key. i need the key to speak.  i spend my day listening over my shoulder, my head turned, my face toward the key i can not see.  i am surprised many times by black birds flashing over me as though i am a copse of trees.  i laugh at my foolish feet.  i draw food into my mouth.  i cram my crevices with goods.  piss strobes down my legs. light finds me in variation and darkness sets me cold.  i grow tired.  i sleep.   i wake up.  i look upon a central spot in my body which does not exist.  i yearn. i need the black spot to find the key.  i need the key to speak.  i spend my day listening over my shoulder, my head turned, my face toward the key i can not see.  i am surprised many times by black birds flashing over me as though i am a copse of trees.  i laugh at my foolish feet.  i draw food into my mouth.  i cram my crevices with goods.  piss strobes down my legs. light finds me in variation and darkness sets me cold.  i grow tired.  i sleep.   i wake up.  i look upon a central spot in my body which does not exist.  i yearn. i need the black spot to find the key.  i need the key to speak.  i spend my day listening over my shoulder, my head turned, my face toward the key i can not see.  i am surprised many times by black birds flashing over me as though i am a copse of trees.  i laugh at my foolish feet.  i draw food into my mouth.  i cram my crevices with goods.  piss strobes down my legs. light finds me in variation and darkness sets me cold.  i grow tired.  i sleep.   i wake up.  i look upon a central spot in my body which does not exist.  i yearn. i need the black spot to find the key.  i need the key to speak.  i spend my day listening over my shoulder, my head turned, my face toward the key i can not see.  i am surprised many times by black birds flashing over me as though i am a copse of trees.  i laugh at my foolish feet.  i draw food into my mouth.  i cram my crevices with goods.  piss strobes down my legs. light finds me in variation and darkness sets me cold.  i grow tired.  i sleep.   i wake up.  i look upon a central spot in my body which does not exist.  i yearn. i need the black spot to find the key.  i need the key to speak.  i spend my day listening over my shoulder, my head turned, my face toward the key i can not see.  i am surprised many times by black birds flashing over me as though i am a copse of trees.  i laugh at my foolish feet. i draw food into my mouth.  i cram my crevices with goods.  piss strobes down my legs. light finds me in variation and darkness sets me cold.  i grow tired.  i sleep.   i wake up.  i look upon a central spot in my body which does not exist.  i yearn.  i need the black spot to find the key.  i need the key to speak.  i spend my day listening over my shoulder, my head turned, my face toward the key i can not see.  i am surprised many times by black birds flashing over me as though i am a copse of trees.  i laugh at my foolish feet.  i draw food into my mouth.  i cram my crevices with goods.  piss strobes down my legs. light finds me in variation and darkness sets me cold.  i grow tired.  i sleep.   i wake up. i look upon a central spot in my body which does not exist.  i yearn. i need the black spot to find the key.  i need the key to speak.  i spend my day listening over my shoulder, my head turned, my face toward the key i can not see.  i am surprised many times by black birds flashing over me as though i am a copse of trees.  i laugh at my foolish feet.  i draw food into my mouth.  i cram my crevices with goods.  piss strobes down my legs. light finds me in variation and darkness sets me cold.  i grow tired. i sleep.   i wake up.  i look upon a central spot in my body which does not exist.  i yearn. i need the black spot to find the key.  i need the key to speak.  i spend my day listening over my shoulder, my head turned, my face toward the key i can not see.  i am surprised many times by black birds flashing over me as though i am a copse of trees.  i laugh at my foolish feet.  i draw food into my mouth.  i cram my crevices with goods.  piss strobes down my legs. light finds me in variation and darkness sets me cold.  i grow tired.  i sleep.   i wake up.  i look upon a central spot in my body which does not exist.  i yearn. i need the black spot to find the key.  i need the key to speak.  i spend my day listening over my shoulder, my head turned, my face toward the key i can not see.  i am surprised many times by black birds flashing over me as though i am a copse of trees.  i laugh at my foolish feet.  i draw food into my mouth.  i cram my crevices with goods.  piss strobes down my legs. light finds me in variation and darkness sets me cold.  i grow tired.  i sleep.

i am convinced there is a key.

(why am i convinced?)

i am convinced there is a key.

(why am i convinced?)

i am convinced there is a key.

(why am i convinced?)

so this is how it goes.  it does not change.  i sleep.  i wake up. i look upon a central spot in my body which does not exist.  i yearn. i need the black spot to find the key.  i need the key to speak.  i spend my day listening over my shoulder, my head turned, my face toward the key i can not see.  i am surprised many times by black birds flashing over me as though i am a copse of trees.  i laugh at my foolish feet.  i draw food into my mouth.  i cram my crevices with goods.  piss strobes down my legs. light finds me in variation and darkness sets me cold.  i grow tired.  i sleep.   i wake up.

Thursday, January 16, 2014

jan 2, 2014, fasting and reflecting on a marriage

'tis not bliss alone
'tis all of the ordinary muck of living
                  plus the bliss


Wednesday, January 15, 2014

in the wealth of winter

very deliciously
i am cold

and so very deliciously
i pull my old wool sweater
(which has been drying over the heater)
from the back of the wooden kitchen chair
onto my body

as time leaves me today

a tragedy spills throughout my chest
like a small white bowl, tipped

in ratcheted rasped breaths i try to press
a line of bows, blackbirds, with my breath

but out the white window
the lambent world ceaselessly surrenders in flow

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

finally releasing the wolf, running, january 14, 2014

in the grocery store in the hygiene aisle (this is significant as it is the place of body) a dark nubile woman approached me from behind, first with her voice, questioning.

"are you the woman who runs down the tote road?"

i turned surprised at being addressed in any manner, but specifically this one, "yes."

she drew closer, her eyes black and beautiful, frightening pools of great depth, almost like an animal.

"i've wanted to tell you," she started talking while breaching the distance between us and standing before me alert in her body, "my father and i see you running up there miles from town.  it is dangerous, you know."

"it is?"  my response was surprise, defiance and question all rolled into one.

"i've got a trap line up there."

this sentence hung between us for a moment.

i thought, she wants me to notice.  she wants me to notice she's a woman, young, beautiful and yet has a trap line.  she wants me to notice the juxtaposition of worlds.  her eyes stayed black.  i was unsure how to measure her.

and yet i was an older woman who ran in the wilderness.  unafraid.  didn't i too want her to notice my defiance?

"we trap wolves," she said.  "and in the last few years there are more than ever before.  and the deer have been good.  as a consequence the wolves are bigger, faster, and despite being well fed, hungrier.  when you run you look like prey.  you shouldn't be up there."

i stammered a bit of laughter.  "i imagine not.  i carried bear spray this year through autumn but it was just last week i stopped as the bears are surely sleeping now and it was only running without anything that last time that i thought about wolves.  maybe i should carry it again?"

"bear spray won't do anything to stop wolves.  carry something for your protection, self defense."

i stood staring at her wondering what that might be.  a stick maybe?  a gun?

she anticipated me, "even with a gun i've had a wolf come at me and not turn at my warning shot."

did she kill it then, i wondered, thrilled by her, but didn't ask.

"well, i'll think about it," i said, turning, not sure what aspect i should think about.  i've known about the wolves all along, heard them on two occasions this last year howl as a pack after (most likely) taking something down.  i've seen evidence of them, even photographs, heard rumors of them pushing the barriers and roaming through town unafraid.

"be careful," she said while i moved away from her and by that i knew what she really meant don't go again.

i am afraid to say this encounter bred fear.  i have gone again but been afraid.  have trembled.  have shouted to the bushes.  have studied footprints.  have turned at what seemed like near encounters.  what was worse than seeing a wolf was not seeing a wolf.

and the fear spread.  fear is a malignancy.  it manifested itself like a dark root contaminating all philosophies. without realizing it i began to fear many things, taste it like a remnant of iron in my mouth.

today i ran again out of town, not as far as usual but in an area known for sightings.  it was an uneventful run, although i was blissfully alive to my body.

and then on the loop coming back into town i noticed two blackened entities on the road up ahead.  if it had been earlier in the year i might have thought bear, but it had to be people, didn't it?  what else might something so dense in shape and colour be?  my eyesight is failing.  i need glasses.  and so i trained my eyes upon the two figures as i ran forward, trying to distinguish exactly what they were.  and how i laughed at myself to discover they were pylons directing traffic around troubled section of the road.  what an idiot i am:) so often fallible in my perceptions.

but then closer and off to the right!

what was it?

i hadn't been paying attention and so my field of vision closest to me on the road was vacant until that something had slipped off into the woods, low, furtive, fast.

what was it?

it was low, light in colour, with a tail.

but it hadn't existed on the road until it exited!

because i hadn't been paying attention.

what should i do?

(did i even ask that question?)

like a bloodhound i was to the right and running faster toward it, watching the treeline and into the woods as far as i could, knowing i would most likely miss it.  but i wanted to at least see its tracks!  i wanted to know what it left in its wake!

and then there it was again in front of me on the road, a fox, incredibly lithe, beautiful, a low streak of freedom.

and then off the left side of the road, over the bank and into the woods.

i clapped and grieved for i wanted to hold the named fox longer. and i grieved for what had happened before the naming too.  i wanted to track whatever it was for a longer duration of unknowing.

invariably dangers lie in front of us.  i do not want to waste my time trembling in fear.

i want to become alive and active following the tracks of the world before me, as i run toward it.

___

* i realize some hours later, and this seems of paramount importance, that i have not only heard rumors of wolves, seen evidence, heard them, but i in fact have seen them!  my god, and yet i forgot this!  on two occasions in the last while i have seen them, one crossing the road after running in farm land and one crossing a trail that james and i walked upon last winter.  it was merely feet from us!  and yet i forgot the reality of seeing them and remembered instead the obscurity of sensing them.  ha!  what foolishness!  but how this underscores the nature of fear associated with the unseen vs. the seen.

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

sometime near midnight close to the new year in Reisterdam

it's a paltry moment.  a sick one.  a weak one.  we're all blanched.  the world has taught us some terribly useful lessons, for certain. taken us up by our necks and shaken us.  goose pimpled lumps, i reckon we are all like chickens limp in god's fine hands.  poor.  we are poor.  dirt poor.  but we didn't know it.  not really.  as a philosophy, yes.  as a strict fact of numbers.  we are undeniably the bottom lot in Reisterdam.  the bottom feeders.  the not well dressed.  uncoiffed.  untechnofied.  unable.  obvious outsiders.  lessers. but not until the accidental series of small murmurous events did we know our poverty as more than our suits, our chosen accouterments. instead we have learned our poverty as our bodies themselves, not the clothes that sheathe them.  not until the water heater broke.  and then the car's brakes.  and then the tires.  and we needed to travel for the sickness, the body's ill ease inside this living, floundering, failing, pushing to get out. even what was placed inside of us in our beginnings, the effective root of a wisdom tooth pushing unforgivingly through our eldest's jaw like a piece of glass after winter being heaved up and through calcified bone with frost.  that's how deep our poverty goes.  and then Christmas, a few bare bulbs and the defeat of no gifts.  and now the winter storm. 


storm shut-ins, our groceries wrung our last penny out. a bag of potatoes squats on the floor.


and now, because what came before was not enough, the smell of propane slowly leaking from a cracked pipe or defeated valve somewhere beneath this old house's foundation, slowly killing us.  not quick like for rich folks who experience accident or are misinformed and can blame someone else.  but dragged out, knowingly, we can smell it for weeks.  it makes us stupid.  and it's too damned cold out to go anywhere with this the worst of Reisterdam's winters in decades.  and where would we go anyway?  we have nothing.  nowhere.  it is eleven o'clock at night.  i smell along the perimeter of the soiled rooms like a rodent, trying to convince myself that i smell nothing.  but i am already dizzy and cloying at my throat.  i look at my husband.  consider my children.  "let's all sleep together upstairs," i suggest quietly, knowing propane's sickly scent is heavier than air. 


"we'll be safe there." 


i say these words like a test to myself, my children, my husband, the world.  we'll all be safe, as though this is the ultimate shelter, the words themselves being uttered.  belief.  (do they believe me?)


but should we, i wonder.  should we try?  should we bother?  try to make it through the night?  the wind throws fistfuls of snow at the whitened windows and shakes the whole house as though it has taken it and us into the crux of its bent arm and wrestles all in an omnipotent grip.  the wind is the entire world, all of existence. it wracks any petty philosophies that we might have, over the years, tried to establish;  small philosophies like tomorrow


i look at us all again.  we're intoxicated on our nothing. 


and can i tell you?  can i admit to you the unimaginable, that which should never be uttered?  there is a moment when i don't care.  when i imagine that as long as we all go, not one or two, no witnesses, no suffering left behind, but all of us gone.  it is the inevitable destination anyways.  i imagine us peacefully sleeping in our beds, inanimate, mouths open and sleeping on through the unknown movement of the morning and then completely smothered kindly out of our own bodies and lifted, displaced, but to where?  each of our bodies dense flesh sepulchres alone in their covers but irrelevant, for i know, looking upon such calm faces, there is no room remaining for fear inside any one of us. and while i am a wild human, instinctive, smelling for the most advantageous avenue inside of my prophetic drastic imagining, i feel i have found an abridged way to freedom, a place where we might all cross safely together.


but i turn.  i turn instead.  miraculously i raise a somnambulist leg.  something inside this body wants to live.  it must be so tiny and elusive that it is hiding from me, i reason, for i can not see it but it must be stronger even in its small size than fear, than mind.  i choose another day to dare a lighting rod of unlikely joy to strike me through this malaise, this suffering, ripped, ripe and potent.  i dare hope.  i dare even every minor cataclysm that has befallen us and will befall us time and again.  i dare our isolation from each other.  yes, i become that emboldened.  and i dare another moment of precise and excruciating crescendo, the employed complicit decision making called for inside of living, every bit like this one. 


and the wild tagged tail that follows my decision, the denominator, the always crucial factor?  we don't even know if the stairs will save us.  we know nothing.  ever.


but we all turn, together.  turn into the night.  and climb the stairs.

Thursday, January 2, 2014

small threads of the black body combed and piqued toward the distance

i begin this year moving into my ignorance.  i begin this year knowing all life is one life.  something black means something articulated, and all that is articulated is the same thing. and i begin knowing knowledge is not a coin we hold in our pocket, but a cloud of cloud or smoke or birds which drifts, takes shape, and then departs into its various forms, seen and unseen.  and form is both form and formlessness.  and this year is and is not, will be and will never be.  and yet before i know it it will break apart and be behind me as though it was in fact real.  and, despite its passing, with form or without, it will remain animate inside me.

i run out into this day.  yesterday there was no snow.  today i run out in my black running clothes through the snow whipped wind.  i am well.

many years ago.  ok, two, three, four and five years ago, and many more, there was a black fungus that ringed the choke cherry trees on the corner of our property.  it laid into the wood and seemed to consume it, taking away from the wood the place where the wood existed and existing there instead.  i worried for the wood.  i worried for the trees and the fruit that could no longer be borne upon the limbs. i worried even for the aesthetics of the drab blobs of black rings upon the twigs which shone like shit on sticks when the foliage was gone in the winter light.  half heartedly i fought the fungus. and in great fullness i lost my meagre battle.  i remember the last choke cherry i put into my mouth from those bushes, that sweet anesthetic numbing of my tongue and gums, and the betrayal of my mouth a blood clotted stain, even beneath my smile.

in virginia last week i looked out into the most divergent of landscapes.  nothing in my previous life might have suggested to me mountains and hollows such as these.  i knew nothing of a gorge such as the one that glowered with a serious brow of wrinkled rock in front of me, sweeping over a vast expanse of nothingness toward its floor.  and yet there, remarkably, on the brindled limbs of some tree alongside the gorge, the same black fungus i knew for years, a rancour.  but now i didn't worry.  now i understood a little more.

yesterday while driving through farmland in northern indiana through snow we came upon a harried flock of black wings and spontaneous movement away from us which suggested suspicious mind, smart body, the animal corpus in cacophonous retreat.  i was enthralled, alive to something important.

now i move my body along the narrow roads, the woods temporarily abandoned by men because of the inconvenience of weather, but the trees, the trees always alive and so much more persistent and knowledgeable, patient. off to the side i notice black bodies striking the white distance and i think of the fungus.  but it is not.  it is instead leaves the colour of black rotted legs on an old diabetic man.  it seems as though they have been murdered yet left as evidence, still clinging to the tree, anachronistic flags. and there are crooked seed pods about five or six inches in length, smartly composed, aerodynamic, holding beautiful arcs and striking bold angles. 

on the road in front of me, my face down and my eyesight limited because of the wind, i notice a blob of shit, as perfectly formed as shit can be, curved in and distinct upon itself.  but yet as i take one step closer i realize it is only one of the seed pods which has blown into the roadway and has settled here and only appears as one thing at a certain angle, itself at another. 

and further up the road when i dare to lift my face, a scattering of movement from tree limbs darting from one side of the road to the other and then to a body, to something, to a thing lying in the middle of the road.  oh, my mind considers, something dead they feed from.  something animate they are curious about.  or an inanimate curiosity perhaps?  i squint my eyes to cut the cold and keep watching as i make my way closer.  but again the animal mind and body so smart, the birds break apart, the ones in the air, yes, but the body that is on the road as well!  it was not one thing that was lying there, but an assembly of birds being.  how surprised i am!  i raise my arms into the wind laughing at just how ignorant i am, how blessedly so. 

a moment later i run beneath the empty limbs along the empty road, the birds having moved further off into the forest.

further along still i am flanked by farm fields, exposed.  (do you see how this might go on forever? and does?)  stubble breaks through the snow to the left and the right, dark evergreens brood along a road in the distance i will turn onto, and further off the sun, besmirched by clouds and the solemnity of winter, shines only a vague light. 

but i can hear something.  i can hear it as though i am an infant holding shapes in my hands with my eyes closed, a honking.  i search the skies.  dull pewter and dirty water stained clouds, that's all i see.  and yet i can hear it, them, more than one.  and so i search again and again, stopping in the middle of the road and tipping my face upward, shielding my eyes, not from sun but from the wind, until finally their accumulation of dark bodies reveals itself in a V cutting across the sky.  i can make out not one bird, but only their being geese.  and i want to weep for how the world tells us over and over again these things.

further up the road again there is evidence of another person as ignorant as i am.  he was turning from one road to another and spotted me and so stopped.  he sits looking at me along the distance of road, trying to decipher.  i can see in the moments that pass as he sits, in how he backs up, and in the slow momentum of how he begins to move toward me, his mind working, his trying to understand this world.  his window down he wants to know if i am running or in trouble, for who might be out in such conditions!  i am running, i laugh. and he shakes his head not convinced that anything i say might make sense.

but do you see, it hardly matters what is right or wrong, what makes sense or otherwise.  it hardly matters if there is a tree limb or fungus, if there are birds or leaves or shit or a white field beyond them.  it hardly matters if i am a woman running, a person at all, a tree, alive or dead, here now or gone.  what matters is that there are, that there is, and that we are lenses through which everything is perceived rightly and wrongly and in all the various ways possible.  experience itself is master, being, one form up against another, the black body next to the white field, a black body next to a white field, or vice versa in terms of importance, the and a birds each gunning in buckshot flight toward the distance.

i travel headlong into my ignorance and there, i find with great surprise, a blessed freedom.