Sunday, November 13, 2016

Being lazy

I remember reading many years ago, in high school, that Rene Descartes used to lay in bed in the morning and dream, and that that is where some of his best ideas came to him.

And I remember feeling--this is not the word I would have used--that thinking logically about how to think logically, that using geometric proofs to demonstrate how we all should be and what is universally true, was wonderful.

And without doing more research to see if my sense is correct--what I am about to say may be very stupid and should be considered as such by those more erudite on this topic than I--I feel that someone with trauma in them, unprocessed emotions below the neckline, would  naturally gravitate to a life above the neckline, particularly one in which one could speculate and speak in the abstract about what may lay below the neckline.  We are all animatronic robots, animated by souls, is a logical supposition, for someone disconnected from their body.

But I feel, I feel, waves coming at me sometimes in my bed (my futon: I follow the Asian custom and sleep on a thin cotton mattress on the floor that I fold up after making in the morning) of complete transmissions.

My Eden poem came like that, and I'm afraid I likely lost much of it.  I will say though that that poem meant a lot to me.  I felt a kinship for Adam and Eve.  My blood is their blood, their sins and honest errors haunt me now too.  And Eden was never destroyed: it was just forbidden for a time.

Through all that is Andrei Tarkovsky, the visual poet.  Yes, that is the phrase.  His father was an actual poet--quoted in the Mirror, and referenced in Nostalghia--but he goes the next step.  Eden as the inner sanctum of Stalker.  Eden as the healing pools of Nostalghia.  Eden as the panicked crowds running, running, running in the Sacrifice.

Then of course, my Eden.  Can we not return to something?  Can what was lost never be found again, even if we move forward in Dream Time?

Ah, I lie there and feel kinship with humanity.  Sometimes by body is rocked and my heart pushes its every last drop of energy into the world.  I doubt I can explain what I mean.

My life is an odd one. I am not like other people, even though I am very much like other people.  I see people, and sometimes their stories come to me, and sometimes they don't.  So many hearts have been broken, so many never even allowed to grow.  Brutal gardeners refused to water them, and cut them off from the sun.  They are stunted and alone, but so often they do not even know it.  They speak of "the world".  We speak of how they are, what they don't understand.

And all through this I feel I would suffer a thousand incisions, a thousand bites, for a tiny fraction of the wisdom I feel in the air.  It is there, but I have not yet made it my friend.  This is my fault.  It is certainly my fault.

Tarkovsky has a drunk Russian (Nostalghia)  dreaming of being in the ruins of an ancient church, and a female angel asking of God "show him a sign", and God says "I show him all the time, but he does not see."

I reach and I suffer, and I feel.  My faith is actually strong, although that may not be obvious.  This will work out eventually, and I am prepared to endure until it does.

Perhaps I should not have written this.  I am drinking, but I am not drunk, but as rambling as this is, it is an expression of something deep and important within me, and may yet touch you, my friend I have not yet met.

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