we explode

Just above our terror, the stars painted this story in perfect silver calligraphy. And our souls, too often abused by ignorance, covered our eyes with mercy.

Now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still. For once on the face of the earth, let’s not speak in any language; let’s stop for one second, and not move our arms so much. It would be an exotic moment without rush, without engines; we would all be together in a sudden strangeness. Fisherman in the cold sea would not harm whales and the man gathering salt would look at his hurt hands. Those who prepare green wars, wars with gas, wars with fire, victories with no survivors, would put on clean clothes and walk about with their brothers in the shade, doing nothing. What I want should not be confused with total inactivity. Life is what it is about; I want no truck with death. If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death. Perhaps the earth can teach us as when everything seems dead and later proves to be alive. Now I’ll count up to twelve and you keep quiet and I will go.

XXXVII All of the time before you came is lost in your coming and going. I have waited for you at three different stations. Now there is no need for waiting: you have never been gone. It was only necessary to climb the mountain to recognize this. Having asked forgiveness, I cast a fly to fantastically beautiful brookies; I watch the spawning cutthroat lose his color in the transparent, jade-green water of Fairy Lake: floating in a pink cloud of diffusing blood. I glimpse frozen-capped peaks through the pines: there can be no rest for me. Burning. There is no such thing as waiting. XXXVIII That which hangs in suspension: a motionless fish in still water looks with two eyes out of the side of his head and does not see what is before him. Facing the current, the water begins to flow about him and he is not swept away. He sees those things which pass by and maintains his position with little effort. Turning with the current, he reaches the sea with no effort at all. Having reached the sea he feels no need to swim farther: the sea contains an abundance of food  XLVIII As I look out through fifteen feet of water schools of minnows and orange-bellied bluegills swim past my ears. Emptiness is the aquarium I swim in. There is a constant roar caused by the pressure of water against my temples: the memory of you. XLV Like the bluegill that swims in frantic circles when hooked; like the rabbit that runs in a wide arc when pursued by hounds; thinking to gain freedom, I too run in circles. XLVII Does the fish pray to the fisherman who lurks on the bank above? Does the rabbit worship the hunter that waits for him to come round? Do I long for the source of my despair? XLIV hold the brookie in my hand. In the sun it turns to shiny gold: blue, orange-circled spots burst before my eyes. I look across the clear-running river; there is no reversing what I have done. Slowly I become aware that the chill from the river has penetrated my rubber waders. I have an urge to cry. CCLIX The fish know. Currents. Pressures. And deep water. They lay among the rocks, sunlight on their backs. Mountain trout. Speckled browns. Ferns… I lay among them to learn from the fish. Oxygen Exchange Which fish passed the weir of night, breathing in, breathing out, air in water, fire in light, blood aflame in brilliant gill gulped red dwarfs, yellow lasers, exhaust a trail of milt, dotted egg mass drifting down charged with multiple functions a Milky Way of a thousand constellations? CXLV When we started up the mountain you complained that your legs hurt and sat down. Now you ask me what I saw from up there. LXXIX They say do not try to unlock this door without a teacher. Who locked the door? LI I am the man who no longer speaks words. Attribute my silence to fear not wisdom. Do you know the relationship of the fisherman to the world of fishes?

I must learn to love the fool in me - the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries.

Waiting for Weekend

You don't have to wait for something 'meaningful' to come into your life so that you can finally enjoy what you do. There is more meaning in joy than you will ever need. The 'Waiting to start living' syndrome is one of the most common delusions of the unconscious state.

L'esprit de l'escalier {French}

We know that land once, You and I, and once we wandered there in the long days now long gone by, a dark child and a fair. Was it on the paths of firelight thought in winter cold and white, or in the blue-spun twilit hours of little early tucked-up beds in drowsy summer night, that you and I in Sleep went down to meet each other there, your dark hair on your white nightgown and mine was tangled fair? We wandered shyly hand in hand, small footprints in the golden sand, and gathered pearls and shells in pails, while all about the nightingales were singing in the trees. We dug for silver with our spades, and caught the sparkle of the seas, then ran ashore to greenlit glades, and found the warm and winding lane that now we cannot find again, between tall whispering trees.