That is, right here
Archival entries (09/2001 to 10/2008) will stay here at livejournal, but ads were getting obnoxious enough to overcome my laziness in transferring this over to my domain. So here we are. A clean slate and a tail in the door.
"Women are always under the impression that men love them more than they really do."
"I wouldn't delude myself for a second that you were in love with me."
"Now there you're wrong."
T - 23 hours, 3 meetings, 2 errands, and a bit of packing.
I came upon a dead doe in the forest. She was so far decomposed, I identified her by virtue of her hooves and the characteristic lack of antlers on her skull, which just as easily could have made her a fawn, except for the size of her rib cage. There is no dignity in death, the way we pretend when we dress the dead as though the afterlife were a formal event only they accepted the invitation for. Death is death, and the only incomprehensible bit is how the world must continue to exist without our consciousness perceiving it. Because we know it continues to exist, and we know it without any assurances.
A limb without intrinsic meaning, severed in its connection to the body, as in the ballet of the Inner Space. River Tam picking up a gun or a tree branch: it's just an object. Death robs the body of its meaning, and in our denial, our cultural training, we find ways to pour meaning into that void, to make it into something else, something that is not the other shore.
A world view which incorporates reincarnation takes, as its general design, a process of variations and metamorphosis. JBY and LDY's former lives as gardener and plant becomes reinacted, with a small degree of metamorphosis, as their lives as star-crossed lovers in human form. The next life can be expected to be incrementally different, but never with the previous iteration unrecognizable in its current manifestation. LSB and ZYT, reincarnated as butterflies, might expect something similar in that life. So even in this, our mythology, we make our traps inescapable.
In a story, there is a library, the building fractal-shaped, with infinite wall space. On the shelves, there are books full of every combination of words, characters, in every language, every possible narrative, every truth, and every lie. In this body of literature, humanity has examined every branch point of history, and traversed every path in every potential story. There is a series with every variation on every lifetime we might have lived, each one in the series differs by a single different decision, a single mutation. And as the story evolves, as it plays out every possible narrative in my head, we are back to this: convergence.
Strange how this journey evolves different ways of building wings. Strange how this journey still ends each chapter in the same place. Strange how this journey doesn't end the narrative when the characters die, like in the Three Kingdoms. Strange how we just know, sometimes, the course of actions, the script for this iteration, without comprehending why. Strange how this journey.
There is much value in asking ourselves whether a line "fits" the poem, and not our preconceived notions of what the poem 'should' be. What it, the poem, the entity, speaks to us, and not what we want to say. It is like not knowing what meaning is contained in dream imagery until it finds its way into a piece of music. Step back from the text. Stop trying to hit me and hit me.
The bird, a blade of dry grass in her beak, lands lightly on the branch. All trees are good at listening; since they do not speak, they generally do not interrupt, which says nothing about comprehension.
Mon, May. 5th, 2008, 03:12 pm