Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Inside us there is a listener who listens for what we say, a watcher who watches what we do. Each step we take in conversation with our friends, moving slowly, or flying among words, he watches, calling us into what is possible, into what is not said, into the shuckheap of ruined arrowheads, or the old man with missing fingers.
We wake, stretch, stand up, speak our first sentence, and fall as we talk into a hole in the sounds we make. Overly sane afternoons in a room during our twenties come back to us as a son who is mad. Every longing another had that we failed to see returns as a squinting of the eyes when we talk, and no sentimentality, only the ruthless body performing its magic, transforming each of our confrontations into energy, changing our scholarly labors late at night over white-haired books into certainty and healing power, and our cruelties into an old man with missing fingers.
At breakfast we speak of people long known who've left the Path, and two hours later in broad daylight the car slides off the road. I give advice in public one day as if I were adult, and that night a policeman in my dreams holds a gun to the head of a blindfolded girl. We talk of eternity and growth, and I pour more wine into my glass than into yours.
* I wrote down this short piece from a book without noting the author.
Why is Robert Bly the first person to come to mind? Maybe... not?