Saturday, October 1, 2011
Souls and the stuff of souls transit outside of time, link fingers across times, and draw sap from the embodied passions that we feel when they hover in chilled nighttime pockets, untethered to place.
We, from our earthbound circumstances, reprise our narratives, life after concurrent life, century after simultaneous century, grief after accumulated grief.
Say that when god exhales stars are born. Assert that divine instructions reveal themselves in stages and come foreshadowed in omens. Shout to me that no instructions ever existed or that god cradles us like babies. A being so monumental, could it be as though we never were?
When she departed, a hole opened. She left her body and went through. I wanted to follow and she said "not yet." Do not speak of next, past, or departed.
She went there. I know she slips into me when a song arises in my heart or I find myself standing in the rain, alone, outside the front door to a home that is not mine, singing a song I'd never heard before.
In such implausible ways transmission occurs.