The uncertainties that turned fiercely into certainties are all in the previous multitudinous words and actions. That though doesn’t prevent the words still wanting to flow, for there are new uncertainties that will become the future certainties
Each day there is some pain or other, some large or small irritation, some brief, or longer lasting, taste of peace and joy. Not that I know myself any better; I am up too close to take a balanced view, my balance is mostly unbalanced
I have a ringing sound in my ears & my toes are tingling, there are rumbles from my digestive system and a dull pain from the area of my shoulder. I can see light from two-thirds of a circumference without moving & I can think on of this mornings half-way erotic dream
None of this would matter, unless you, the reader, had not got this far, for now I have to avoid repetition. Same as it ever was might have worked as a song lyric with a seventeen times reverb, but not for my reader, he wants more from my soul, more from my mind
What fired the early morning half-awake cavorting, with such a young, petit beauty; what had him shouting instructions over the cliff face to the hordes of workers below. With such tiredness of thought the sleep had come quickly, with no alarm his sleep was free from interruption; yet he woke, briefly, before the slender young woman curled into his body, before her gentle movements delivered him to nirvana.
& now, in the early evening, I prefer to dwell on the emotion, rather than to try to understand the meaning. Although I am aware that those few pages of Jung could have ground into my sleep’s own subconscious; rewarded me for my days insincere efforts.
For the dream was a payback, all soft and warm and loving. No angst, no noise, no friction; just love, love and bodies in free and fluid motion. Love, and the carefree intimacy of the desirer and the desired; always to be in the warmth of ones own making.
If I described this room; with its unlit stove on a rural stone slab, would that help you, the reader to gather your own misappropriations of the days and years gone by. Would it help you to know, of the light within, and the dark without, of the overheard television drama, and one side of a boisterous telephone conversation.
I dare to say it would not help; yet to know that I look at a painting, of two working men tiling a roof, would I think be of assistance. Workers; the very places I came from, the very people I tried to escape from; the very purpose of pictures; not to be what we were born to be.
To become something other; inside and outside of ourselves, being ourselves first, and foremost; although even our self is caught up in the forgetfulness. We forget what to do, what to say; we forget what to learn, what would give peace, what would help our mind quieten. We forget, until the young woman joins our quilted existence.
From the Collection One Crow to a Tree - Love in Separate Houses available from Lulu
