We find ourselves at the sea, over and over, the way the waves suck us back into ourselves, and these countable repetitions of the phases of the moon, they make us make sense of our own repetitions. Even if there is no sense. We have to have stories about ourselves to tell ourselves in order to make lines in the sand that mark us from here to there and back all over again.
Like everything, I am traces, we are traces, of an original repetition that we will never get to the bottom of. We are a repetition of something that has happened before, we have already happened, and this is the playing out of a complicated repetition of original energy that we can never get to the bottom of. This is the music we heard in a cafe that we heard together, that we understood was going to be important, because it was the music we had already heard when we were not together, and it might matter that our matter is far away from each other, or it might not matter because it repeats, and we'll repeat in time, according to the flow of the ocean, and it won't have anything to do with when we want it to happen, our desire won't make the flow stronger or weaker.
None of this is within anyone's control.
There are things that are wrong with the people I am surrounding myself with, there are a thousand pains from a thousand lifetimes ago, that are wrong. I am not going to complain. I'm bothered by the way some of these things keep repeating, the same people keep coming into my life again and again, with new faces and old faces, and the new faces say the things that the old faces used to say, and I see the same longing in those faces, and watch them try to make sense out of something that is not in anyone's control. And the old faces keep coming back to try to say things with new faces, but we all really know it's the same desire in another version, another phrasing of an original theme that we can't get to the bottom of. I know this because I have an old face.
There's an old sickness that keeps returning, to all of the people I am surrounding myself with, multiple sicknesses that won't go away, or that keep coming back, and I am here to help things. My own sickness is not very sick these days, and I am not trapped, by body is lean and I'm moving in space according to my own desires and the air is warm enough for right now and I can go where I feel like going, and I talk to whoever I like, and I won't complain about these repetitions, because it's part of a pattern that is beyond me.
In the house I grew up, my father is taking all the boxes of photographs and letters off the shelves and is busy categorizing all the people he knew and was during his life. The old objects of the past are all over the tables, the objects speak like letters, and the letter are becoming objects. This is the object where my grandmother lays out the incomplete history of migrations from Poland to here. This is the letter that looks like a keychain that I kept from the first woman I loved completely. Nothing is fading like a ghost, they all have the exact life they are supposed to have right now.
In the house where I grew up, my brother is losing track of everyday objects, things do not fit where they should, and physics should not have to apply to things when it's important, when this moment is so terribly important and urgent, and the present needs to confront the past and learn how to make friends with it, but it will not cannot.
It's a strange dance, and I don't know the right moves, and I'm too confused about my own desires to make the moves in an order that will set anything right, so I am caught in the same energy flow, and am at my calmest when I am aware and not aware at the same time, and not trying to resist anything, not even my own desire to resist. There are no new loves to open the year and make things bright, only a dark resistance to brightness, and the need for the living ghosts to make themselves understood. Objects and languages separate us, and our hands are already sore from working the knots.
I ask the same mermaid, please take me under, please take me under all of this, so that I can see it through water, so that I can see their suffering through water, so that I can hear the pulse in my own head, place a list of names on my pillow, so that when I wake up, I might know who to love, and how.
Like everything, I am traces, we are traces, of an original repetition that we will never get to the bottom of. We are a repetition of something that has happened before, we have already happened, and this is the playing out of a complicated repetition of original energy that we can never get to the bottom of. This is the music we heard in a cafe that we heard together, that we understood was going to be important, because it was the music we had already heard when we were not together, and it might matter that our matter is far away from each other, or it might not matter because it repeats, and we'll repeat in time, according to the flow of the ocean, and it won't have anything to do with when we want it to happen, our desire won't make the flow stronger or weaker.
None of this is within anyone's control.
There are things that are wrong with the people I am surrounding myself with, there are a thousand pains from a thousand lifetimes ago, that are wrong. I am not going to complain. I'm bothered by the way some of these things keep repeating, the same people keep coming into my life again and again, with new faces and old faces, and the new faces say the things that the old faces used to say, and I see the same longing in those faces, and watch them try to make sense out of something that is not in anyone's control. And the old faces keep coming back to try to say things with new faces, but we all really know it's the same desire in another version, another phrasing of an original theme that we can't get to the bottom of. I know this because I have an old face.
There's an old sickness that keeps returning, to all of the people I am surrounding myself with, multiple sicknesses that won't go away, or that keep coming back, and I am here to help things. My own sickness is not very sick these days, and I am not trapped, by body is lean and I'm moving in space according to my own desires and the air is warm enough for right now and I can go where I feel like going, and I talk to whoever I like, and I won't complain about these repetitions, because it's part of a pattern that is beyond me.
In the house I grew up, my father is taking all the boxes of photographs and letters off the shelves and is busy categorizing all the people he knew and was during his life. The old objects of the past are all over the tables, the objects speak like letters, and the letter are becoming objects. This is the object where my grandmother lays out the incomplete history of migrations from Poland to here. This is the letter that looks like a keychain that I kept from the first woman I loved completely. Nothing is fading like a ghost, they all have the exact life they are supposed to have right now.
In the house where I grew up, my brother is losing track of everyday objects, things do not fit where they should, and physics should not have to apply to things when it's important, when this moment is so terribly important and urgent, and the present needs to confront the past and learn how to make friends with it, but it will not cannot.
It's a strange dance, and I don't know the right moves, and I'm too confused about my own desires to make the moves in an order that will set anything right, so I am caught in the same energy flow, and am at my calmest when I am aware and not aware at the same time, and not trying to resist anything, not even my own desire to resist. There are no new loves to open the year and make things bright, only a dark resistance to brightness, and the need for the living ghosts to make themselves understood. Objects and languages separate us, and our hands are already sore from working the knots.
I ask the same mermaid, please take me under, please take me under all of this, so that I can see it through water, so that I can see their suffering through water, so that I can hear the pulse in my own head, place a list of names on my pillow, so that when I wake up, I might know who to love, and how.
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