There is the question of bearing witness, of being yourself seen by yourself, & seen clearly, cleanly, without weapon or bible in hand; as this was the wish, the sturdy & not-so-secret wish of those who named us— our parents wanted us to be known to ourselves without confusion: without judgment, sans suffering. Never force it, they said, always find it. OK, strictly speaking, that's not entirely true. My particular, sole, insistent, moody mother & father probably never thought much about it at all. Those two anxious citizens, they were never exemplars of patience. The weightlessness of detachment & acceptance as I think of it now would have frightened them— for good reason. If you could see these words I'm speaking to you tonight printed on a page as typeface & magnified x 500 you would feel just how ragged & coarse they really are, heavy. Well, playing the part of a butterfly must be tiring, right? I'm happier being the old ox, right? On some plane of existence these two scraps are all my news: where the mess is that's where my heart is. Copyright © 2017 David Rivard. Used with permission of the author. |
0 comments:
Post a Comment