"That's what it is," he was thinking, in the middle of a thought, like it were the middle of a conversation that they had just left off. And honestly, every life is picked up in the middle of a conversation, one left off from last time around, and the ones that are cut short are not beautiful because they're short. That needs more, he was sure, but first, continue the first thought, in the middle, in the middle of a life, picking up on where they left off, a thought she gave him that he wanted to give back to her in a new form, because that's the nature of the gift. Too Derrida. Not really what this is about. Life generates itself on its decomposition which is regenerative because it decomposes, it lives and dies, comes and goes, comes and goes, and we said nothing all the day, and did not come, and did not go..."some are born over and over and are very old souls. And some are born into one life, one time only. And some, that's you, or her, that's her, there she is again, comes and goes sometimes to water and sometimes to land, and I think I do that, too, and the others have an advantage to this place, because with so many times around, it's like home to them, but not like that for us, because we're only home under the cave where you can still here the sounds of the waves, even though it is too far above our heads to make out any of the sounds, not natural to be here, nothing natural about this place at all, not to her, at least, not to me at least, there must be others, but now that we is the only one I know, the only one I know."
This would be longer, he realized, he would rewrite it all and it would be longer, perhaps Wednesday, because everything is longer on Wednesday, it is longer and lasts longer and everything worth waiting for is reminded why we wait when it is Wednesday, but wait on that.
Lives do not become beautiful because they are short, and loves do not get made beautiful because they are short, they are beautiful for reasons that no one can say, it's a certain mix of a certain spice, a secret. Things that are short are tragic. And worse when they revealed themselves as so very beautiful right before they die, because that certain mix does not come around very often, and it makes things grow.
Step Two, we turned and turned and turned again.
And this time it's a parking lot of an Indian restaurant, and he was talking to him about her, but not so much, not so many details, just that there were thoughts, and sweet thoughts, and it was somehow sweet but he didn't expect anything, just wondering about patterns, because remembering this time around or that time around, and especially that one time around when she could not emerge and he could not submerge, because they had their meeting places crossed, he was dry and she was wet and it was like that for a very long life, that was the worst, but this one, not the worst, not at all, but remembering this has happened before makes him feel part of something much larger and older and waves of something coming through him, something hard to put into words, something like the weight of tears and longing on the flesh that makes the blood flow, makes the blood flow in sweetness, the kind of sorrow and longing that makes things emerge, makes things submerge, over lifetimes, and despite time, here you are...and he's talking to him, and the bees, here come the bees, one bee, here comes one bee buzzing around his head, a funny thing, be careful of the bee, and the bee comes around his head, again and again, circling and landing and circling and landing, and he knows what this means. They come around again, after lifetimes, in new bodies, and he's become so attached to this particular body, though, and doesn't want to have to wait for the next one, because he sees her with his hands in the air, in the air she is lying on the air in an afternoon that will not turn to light, and her body is covered in honey, and her body is filled with honey, making jokes about nuns, what made sor juana so sore, and this is a sting and that is not a sting and everything is a little like a sting, in varying degrees of tension and release, and this is being stung, except he is not stung, only courted. The bee is buzzing his head, and he is lost in his thumbnail, it still has the moon in it, it still reflects the sun, how much sun and how much moon, everyone has a little or a lot of both sun and moon, held under the tongue after communion to remember which lover you were to know which you were supposed to be next, nature loves repetition, the first time is not always the best time, but the third and forth, yes, and every time after, and sometimes sometimes always it always takes at least 256 times to get it right the first time.
This would be longer, he realized, he would rewrite it all and it would be longer, perhaps Wednesday, because everything is longer on Wednesday, it is longer and lasts longer and everything worth waiting for is reminded why we wait when it is Wednesday, but wait on that.
Lives do not become beautiful because they are short, and loves do not get made beautiful because they are short, they are beautiful for reasons that no one can say, it's a certain mix of a certain spice, a secret. Things that are short are tragic. And worse when they revealed themselves as so very beautiful right before they die, because that certain mix does not come around very often, and it makes things grow.
Step Two, we turned and turned and turned again.
And this time it's a parking lot of an Indian restaurant, and he was talking to him about her, but not so much, not so many details, just that there were thoughts, and sweet thoughts, and it was somehow sweet but he didn't expect anything, just wondering about patterns, because remembering this time around or that time around, and especially that one time around when she could not emerge and he could not submerge, because they had their meeting places crossed, he was dry and she was wet and it was like that for a very long life, that was the worst, but this one, not the worst, not at all, but remembering this has happened before makes him feel part of something much larger and older and waves of something coming through him, something hard to put into words, something like the weight of tears and longing on the flesh that makes the blood flow, makes the blood flow in sweetness, the kind of sorrow and longing that makes things emerge, makes things submerge, over lifetimes, and despite time, here you are...and he's talking to him, and the bees, here come the bees, one bee, here comes one bee buzzing around his head, a funny thing, be careful of the bee, and the bee comes around his head, again and again, circling and landing and circling and landing, and he knows what this means. They come around again, after lifetimes, in new bodies, and he's become so attached to this particular body, though, and doesn't want to have to wait for the next one, because he sees her with his hands in the air, in the air she is lying on the air in an afternoon that will not turn to light, and her body is covered in honey, and her body is filled with honey, making jokes about nuns, what made sor juana so sore, and this is a sting and that is not a sting and everything is a little like a sting, in varying degrees of tension and release, and this is being stung, except he is not stung, only courted. The bee is buzzing his head, and he is lost in his thumbnail, it still has the moon in it, it still reflects the sun, how much sun and how much moon, everyone has a little or a lot of both sun and moon, held under the tongue after communion to remember which lover you were to know which you were supposed to be next, nature loves repetition, the first time is not always the best time, but the third and forth, yes, and every time after, and sometimes sometimes always it always takes at least 256 times to get it right the first time.
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