Simple advise to myself, that I won’t take, written on a Friday morning by the pool
I hope that it matters… These daily substitutes for immortality. Condemned to meaning, Beyond us yet ourselves, We hold the world in our hands, but so rarely in our words. Always already there, An awareness unto itself, The earth becomes conscious of itself, Sings itself into existence, When we simply sit and wait. Let the universe go about its changes. There are some things that can be taught in other way than through silence. For the most part we lead very ordinary lives but not very simple ones. Always groping after what is already there, before our eyes, in the fissures between words, the sediment of speech. Oh! The voluptuousness of looking. I know just being there is enough. But I am so far from that. I try to let things happen in their own time. Knowing it will all take care of itself in the end. And it’s true that nothing good in life is ever wasted when it’s done with loving care. I try to trace it all back. Ours is a borrowed song - stabilises the meanings of the words which translate it. There is nothing that words cannot say! Yet speech is defined - no, undermined - no, refined, by that which gives it life. In the end it doesn’t mean anything anyway. And that, of course, is the beauty of the game. Like the old masters said: be in the world, but not of it. Don’t be afraid of letting go!
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AuthorEnglish teacher from the UK. Living in Granada. Currently working in Doha. Archives
February 2022
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