The Book of Bridges

I love those moments before sleep where your thoughts are velvet and carry no concreteness. someone must have designed pillows after these thoughts. their coherence is astounding given that they are either unpersued waking thoughts, or apparitions of another realm entirely. born from a more basic consciousness. i have been reading the unbearable lightness of being every night now as i fall into sleep. though i've already read this book it is one of my favorites to read while my consciousness disappears from the world. the Human Truth there echos currents in the realm of abstract connection and carries them into sleep in such a path that matches breath's swinging door. (for echo is the sound of the soul exciting itself in hollow places.) If i'm lucky sometimes i dream in such books, waking up in the early morning hours repeating passages that no longer have meaning but still retain their beauty. i intend to make a record of these passages at some point. i would call it The Book of Lost Books or The Book of Bridges and it would as the last arial binding of light be the connection of our full consciousness. it would be a book to read while exiting the world so that more books would be dreamt and more passages remembered then added in turn to The Book of Bridges. it would be a work of formlessness you could hold in your hand. like cats westling on sunny wood floors.

i went to a wedding yesterday

i have been meaning to talk of love for some time now. religious or personal or ceremonial or The Loss. my mother has The Loss. she has The Loneliness as well. i can see it hiding just visible behind her gestures and the things she chooses not to say. she doesn't like to talk about it, speaking never fixes. words as leaves flow with the wind of voice but carry no current of their own. after a while they seem useless. after a while growing realizes us of the incompatibility of resolution. she told me once in a dark hallway on the floor draped in black silk (one of our shaping moments) that she cannot count on anyone but herself, not for the important things. i do not find this depressing. not all true things are depressing even though they might sound like it at first. the only control or reliance that is lives in your actions, outside objects are tied to so many other forces that faith in them is precarious. this faith, though infinitely valuable, is wise to be held with the knowledge of its time dependent balance. and so she has The Loneliness. she is so mad at it, she is so in love with it. when she was a shadow it was her bed. but i was intending to write of love. yes, that is what i was writing about. i do not mean to capture some state of sadness that crawls up in my belly upon the mention of the word. not at all. i am surrounded by it. love pulls me like a net through hands and time. love is constant as loneliness, they are two perspectives. both are needed. but writing of such a thing is distant in memory and much easier to express via some other outlet. my Love is an oddity that skips from person to person with large gaps between so that forgetfulness can heal and allow old things to feel new again. i am still waiting for the point where my Love can allow reflection. but then, intensity of such magnitude requests complete attention. a sacrifice must be made between identity and intensity. have i named another uncertainty principle? momentum and position, energy and time, identity and intensity. or are these just groups of words that fall to the floor without wind.

three steps in an open field

potential is a cloud of smoke that dissipates with time. human potential, individual potential, three steps in an open field. it is so easy be lost to dispersion. so easy to shift paths or keep paths for too long. let give too much hight for locality. i am not yet sure of the Truth in my words (what Truth are in words?), but i think we might only be allowed three definitions for the self. we choose and compile them in childhood when we are searching for identity and we modify them when maturity makes itself important. but at any age we can carry no more than three active descripts. three is a very practical number. father son holy ghost. i meet with a friend every wednesday for coffee. we talk of religion and voice those places composed of only soft unspoken thoughts. he is a christian. i am not. science fills my faith hole, physics and math are my religion. chaos, consciousness, and connection always seemed more real than a god; or should i say, more like a god. i possess an intuitive understanding of function, people, and form. observation has given me the ability to see people and interaction with a large degree of clarity. my clarity is not unique, but still i find it incredible and fantastic that my christian friend has the same intuitively clear understanding of things. i know many people with this ability, but i have never talked at such length with one who is christian. i am becoming very attached to our coffees, they are pushing me to loose balance and it is always good to have a change of perspective. but balance is such a desirable state. my three definitions are becoming crowded. i cannot yet tell if it is because my gyroscope is slipping and has been slipping for some time on this unstable foundation i have built, or if something more fitting is encroaching and breaking that foundation. the pillar i have chosen is one marked by its potential. the smoke holds long enough to build rather than clear on these years of dedication, of concentration. but we are our character and our ability to make something of it. the smoke must be fed by and feed you, otherwise it has no potential other than pollution. my second foot is not yet poised to disrupt the dew blanketing a field.