Traveling, without time...

One continent runs into another, in the synapses that draw a journey across the sky, through the cool and genuine imaginings of a life lived more fully, in the tense posture needed to counter the erosion of basic human tendencies... one continent lifts up the antidote to another, the complement, the other shades of a life lived close to the source, a passion as much unwinding itself in the wind of circumstance as curling up into its own inevitable form, ever more real as it seeks out the perfect tone for the recognition of its whole musical scope...

I find myself fantasizing about a life I neither live now nor am likely to live, as about the possibility of being heard, being felt, even in the enigma of my own distance, even as I rebel and seek to penetrate, contemplate, comprehend and undo another's necessary and hard-won enigmatic elsewhere...

to be the writer, to be the resister, to be author and subject, to be the progenitor, to be the receiver, to be the signal, the strength of a way of thinking, to be the turbulence without tragedy and the evanescence of deep troubles, to be more and to be less, to get to the very core and to be uninvasive, apt, sage and surprising:

all these projects I seem to consciously pursue, to wait out the crashing tides, to keep head above water and do more than drift: to survive by invention, but by invention of great new microworlds that give and are felt as giving to those involved...

the norm, the stricture, the tease and the drip-drop of a talent unnamed, the emancipation or the giving form to something that is not as such so-so, the act of getting to the moment —which is not in itself passive— where the more is available and is lived and is given...

how to maintain the sage approach and serve and respect the hunger at the same time? must one take refuge in hunger and in loss, in order to keep sharp the instincts that bring sagacity? somehow, I come back to the problem of 'muddling through':

a sort of ever-ongoing mood-swing, having to face the fact that the optimum action and the moment of truth do not come with the way prepared, nor in a parallel and permissive vacuum, but that they come necessarily and always in the mix and muck of the here and now, the unbecoming tide of confusions...

I am traveling, with her, with you, with the whole cumbersome impossible experiment of consciousness, without time, without the elegance or the wisdom time affords itself, without the incalculable resources of the world of self-forming geographies and emotional overhaul, traveling, without time, given to the flux and flaxen-hued with the damp light of a night whose scent seems to come from far off in a distant winter...