the dew knots.
hush: onomatopoeia. A silence that is not sleep, a sleep that clangs its way to dawn. Awake again, yet again.
cliche seems unavoidable, the range of human emotion seems pitifully small from this vantage point. repetitions/smatterings sadness and joy.
And in spite of cliches the sun is unconquered.
the sketchbook has become an egg from which a happiness could grow, fertile white pages taking down the lines that mean the vibration of thought.
got away with a flock of wine last night (that sentence is not true, and neither is this one).
tapping the frame drum with time in it, time waving as it speeds away. the leaves lay on the ground with some kind of aplomb, with a change of perspective the trees are making a final bed. and it is bednight for a time. Is it my time?
revision is re seeing. seeing again as if it is new. and it is new. this time when you look at the thing that has absorbed every second of your mind's time and time's mind. this time you will only see the holes and not the whole. you will see only the flaws, like suppurating wounds. but that is the only chance you might get to see it a new way, once gestalt always gestalt.
gestalt now and forever, like cutting a cord or parting a curtain. the veil, unfortunately remains down on this misty shadow world.
but someday I shall see face to face and not in this glass darkly.
(end of entry)