Sunday, 28 September 2014

Sat 
appealing to the cognitive heart for minute after minute, waiting for the list to appear.

From fogged to jogged, running through.
Within copulate the colloid, suspended thought.




Sat
rumination refitted, shaping itself to the as yet unlisted.

Sat
rumbation re-sized; as a walk through the landscape may order ones thoughts so a rhythm might seize anew the pattern.

I sat and imagined I danced. 
I sat and imagined I was walking through a landscape.

To be open to the futility of it, to be open to the boredom of it, to be in the simple continuation of it. 

The list:


separation
differentiation
relation
momentum
distribution
reproduction
stability

integration; whole person


isolation
alienation
enmity
ferocity
scattering
fornication
doldrums/freezing
disintegration; an illness.

The precision of the day set against this precise day break open shards. The shattered is itself shattered, being precisely not as precise as the day.

As the day; so the suspended thought is 

in sitting; so is the dance hung amongst the walking, so does rumination slip from copulation into the cry; so we are present and actual

but how does one take the immensity of the actual and act as if it were ones own?

For the pushed around it comes rapidly, from the list it comes on quietly,

and

we sit
forewarned of the tremors

of a line that draws integration and disintegration with the same pen. Spilling from out of this point there is the substantial stuff, suspended in a liquid, it tastes; there is the substantial stuff drawn as a thread pulled through the line of all lines.


This same pen writes my name. I am to rejoice, for my name is written in heaven. Heaven is the substance of writing; the pen, the ink, the vellum, and even the substantial stuff drawn from out the nib, the lists of lists and the spillage, even so.



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