We have our affinities — legends & ghosts of archetype longings like blue dregs in the blood. Perhaps we even practice them like match tricks or blacksmithing or driving around at two in the morning looking for a cafe with real, wood-top tables.
Nothing is apparent. A dark Braille of store fronts reads like a characterless dream, an overcast night that will not rain.
A logical oddness is necessary in the slender, numbing edge slid between threads of will and desire.
I remember a letter not yet written to tell Toronto I will not be there this summer juxtaposed with the image of a lake from my last trip back through Montana. Friends I know now have friends there. The world has changed subreference. Minnesota, Horse-Head Lake, the Jewish girl with gifts of 3 meerschaum chess pieces and a Hebrew dictionary.
Today,
(during the telling of this story)
I noticed our reflections in the water, caught between sky and earth, a double-reversing end-frame of mirrors that keep telling the same story – everything changing, never concluding.
I am attracted to things I cannot touch.
I can be touched by them.
Little Golden-Eyes does the trick of her wounds but we are safe, it is stigmata, the suffering is not ours.
Just before sunrise this insomniac affinity to images sums up in a breakfast house restaurant. My face reflects back from a cup of dark coffee, from a Formica white tabletop patterned with golden horses
leaping.
Filed under: Life, Philosophy
