Quite tired now. Just four more days of this. Happy for the daily attention to words though, however incomplete they may be. There's much to return to.
The thing itself
What is it like to talk silently to oneself; what goes on there? —Wittgenstein
Mind’s wind. Intermittent light below fast-moving clouds. A house picked out of a landscape, its details so bright and precise it almost seems to float. Arbitrary selection of the next feature, a phrase, a memory: Jesus in a Plexi-fronted box, the way we protect our saints. Then the next perception, luminosity of the Plexiglass itself, its attempt to break through without words. The tree as tree, taken in complete, breathed into shapes before language. A learning to see. This silent speech as erasure of distance, the cleared space the tree, the thing, the other, fills completely. This direct apprehension of the whole (or: love) which I relax into without words, without description. Led here by the hours of knowing without naming, or attempting to. We stop, sit a little longer near the roses.
Photo by Brenda Anderson, via Flickr.
