A gentleman came to me, wanting to show me something. “It’s a picture of you. Remember?” I said, I did remember.

The picture revealed those ears and nose I stick beneath glasses. Silly me, it was a picture taken when I was young and careless.

“Yes, life itself is scary,” I told the man. Imagine that, life endangered.

I read so very little
I read so much

Backwards, I’ve read
Only to begin to write.

While thinking about it– I stopped. Stopped, that is, working toward the goal I checked for.  Everyday there was a new sense of beginning.  Today, was like no other, for today I would begin again.  More determined to make it, to the finish and completion mark.  With each day, the dream became stronger.  Each night became the festivity of consolation, and a pre-talk, saying “that’s ok,”  because, “Tomorrow!  That is when it will really begin.”

But it has been days, since I last commenced.  The ritual, having left itself a secret for me, now appears beyond my reach.  Ah, but the ritual.  Let us say, I wanted to be a musician.  A polyphonic classicist, redoubling into history with mathematical and harmonic precision.  If I wanted to be a musician, perhaps a long lost theoretician, I’m not far off trying to get a head start– now.  So, to sleep!  I will be back again in the morning.

Morning, now.  And there the keyboard awaits my fingery touch.  A cool lacquer and warmth, my hands paste to the keys hypnotically– some may say, possessed.  But, it is only my first day– not only that, my first time every touching keys.  What is this sound I’m making, it is nothing like imagined.  It can’t be me, it must be the keyboard– who’s out of touch . . .

Again, the day continues . . . Now, I’m reading about a musician.  His name, well, it’s spelt b-e-e-t-h-o-v-e-n.  What that sounds like, well, you’d better be a musician– like me, to know it deserves a little effort.  For in the grammar there is sound.  In every little word there is a bit of music tied to the novelty of barbarism.  For, at least it seems, the beginning of music, requires me to learn– from the beginning.  A new alphabet, without a grammar.  Not only do I not know where this might end, but I am frightened I’m not even sure I know what I like.  With so little experience comes little attachment.  At this point, it is sheer will.  Continuance demands dreaming, it requires constellations– and it’s ringing synonym consolation.

Consolation, because at such a state of being, there is nothing else.  There is the material, surely, those letters and notes beginning to squeek a little life.  And yet, to hear the words and notes, one must fasten the ears.  Strick observance to platonistic laws is the initiation.  Though entirely useless, for now, they must be an end in themselves.  And yet, they beckon no one: there is no attraction.  But, I’ll admit, there is a slight curiosity.

It is no wonder, then, that it I’d rather listen to music.  Rather– read about it.  I’m not much into willing.  That is, trying hard.  And so, perhaps, for me to be a musician I only need to listen to music.  Rather– read about it.  That is me learning to play music.  When a few minutes ago, I talked about waking in the morning refreshed– or rather the night before.  Yes, the pre-reading the night before.  That is the loveliest part, when learning to play music, one plays with music.  Just as lovers attempt to find love, they have no words for yet, they touch each other– and learn about it.  And so, it is never known what love is, at least when one is practicing it.  It is similar with music, that we don’t think ourselves musicians, when trying.  But the trick, is to tell oneself and others, one already is one.

She’s driving home alone.  The winter has come, the storm having left the ground soaked for days.  She is sitting listening to the passing cars, her eyes gridlocked at the lanes.  Ever so often she moves, fixing her dress, catching a little amplitude to see in the rear-view mirror.  There has been one person behind for the past thirty-minutes.  A small gray car passes her, then another car lines up, then passes her.  She is slightly aware of this– and for comfort, she has fixed her mirrors to keep the lights from shinning in her eyes.

This young lady is a teacher.  Like a traditional nurse, she tends to the care of youth.  Her hair is of a mixture of yellows and browns, some kids ask her if she had been painting– the colors being so pronounced.  “I paint sometimes,” they say, “but my mom always makes me clean up– after.”  She is a mother, and likewise, hears her own kids in these words.  Reminded of her sons temper and her daughters independence, she smiles at her students like they were a part of her.

She must have been troubled– that night driving.  She doesn’t appear to like being alone.  And without the eagerness to hurry, to a place where she would be alone, she kept her pace.  She turned on the music, an old fashioned tradition.  The news-caster, having interrupted the broadcast, made the alert that a certain car crash had occurred at Lake St– and that tomorrow, it would still rain.  But there she was, still glued to her chair, looking at the road where only a few people noticed her– apart from being a rudimentary driver.  She thought to herself, “If I could only see over the wheel.”

What a driver.  A teacher, first-rate.

/

There’s a picture– some say a painting,

But, it’s only a canvas, slightly whitened.

/

Lines are of an essential character,

Break it up, the dots negative character.

/

Nathan Oliveira primed Being,

What’s left: just the outline.

/

Black in the figure,

Black’end the eye,

With this silhouette, feel the

Colors against which we live.

/

A man walks wayward,

Without self, but his own tracks

Leave a beautiful scent, for

Another mind,  To play

Him like a Game,

Standing in Itself.

/

There is no excitement in me.  Not a jittery moment, where I find myself wavering.  It has been indifference attenuated by a false sense of certainty.  Yes, but there is nothing more fulfilling.  To find oneself slipping into routine, daily reminders become internalized.  The hardest part of the day, being, the matching of clothes.  Do they match?  Fit?  A good old fashion war.  That is what my life has turned out to be.

Yes, but you can write?  There must be some joy there.  None.  Words are nothing to me.  Nothing, meaning, they are more work than thought.  They bring no consolation for what they take away.  And yet, everyone believes otherwise.  People dream of being a writer, painter, musician . . . an aesthete.  Ah, but they never attain it.  They become callous, because there work, more laborious than most, is unproductive.  There fear is displaced, anger wrapped in their fictive appearance.

There I go again.  Wanting to stop, I continue saying what I shouldn’t.  Should I stop writing, here, and continue to read instead?  Learning from others mistakes?  What place could be better to get a clear view of the nature of their folly– than the stage they set.  That is fun, passively educating oneself.  Laughing, and loosing breath, because of the comedy.

“Dear,” she said, “come put your hands around me.”  I thought her voice consoling.  Turning, I stepped into the sand.  “Careful, the sand is a little warm today,” she warned me.  We were alone, that afternoon as the tide pulled and the clouds spanned the ocean.  “Wait, what is that,” I said.  As I began to look closer a little pool of water accumulated around her feet.  It was stepping pool, I thought.  It was light brown with white flickering off the ripples in the wind.  “I don’t know,” she began, “but it sure feels good.”

I watched this girl, as I would watch a bird.  The only thing is, she didn’t shake and ruffle her feathers.

See how quickly, narratives change.  How rapidly life can cease to exist while finitude steals for itself another life.  That’s when our life is taken, and the rest of time is given to recovering it.  Stealing it back, some say.  I say, we slip into the cracks like the folds in a t-shirt or the holes in a pocket.  Excitement isn’t a part of this world, where darkness prevails and all that remains is touching.  Touching, touching itself.  Eyes pushing and pulling bodies as if they could.  Hands wrapping themselves in knots, as if they could bend as they wish.

The cunning of reason, is nothing more than a lack of sense certainty.  The prevailing touch, covered in sand like the voice asking someone to wrap themselves around them.

She’s a beautiful young lady now.  She has grown to fit her dress, at least just enough.  Her hair down to her shoulders, distinguishes her features– the dark complexion of age.  I’ve been watching her for several minutes now.  She walks with ease and a confidence hard to categorize.  If I had to say it, though, she walks like a drunk.  Her feet cross and she isn’t shy to point it out– with her toes.  As if she were music, she scratches the ground in a disheartening beat.  It is just lovely– pure simplicity, watching her graze the wall while looking up into the window where she watches for her love.

What would she say if someone stopped her.  If they caught her, would she respond?  If there was a passing stranger, perhaps, willing to believe his eyes, would he dare to tempt them?  The world around her seems silent.  The cars drive-by with more attention to her, than the romantics without a rose to drop in her name.  There she is, shuffling her dress like cards.  Her eyes, they pass through the romantics, while they pass their opportunity along– to the next.

There she is, in her youth watching her love.  To me, the window isn’t high enough.  Since, I can she what she sees.  Why is she pretending, why are we pretending.

“Let me out,” said the man on the corner.  Standing steady while others passed, wind whistling and the sunlight fading.  “Let me out,” he said, looking this way then that.  To one corner the sidewalk forked, a beautifully paved street continued.  That’s where the cars drove.  A woman stood, on the other corner.  She stood looking in the direction of him.  She stood, dress flapping in the wind, listening.  “Let me out,” the echo went dead into the wind.  She stood, her body and head flat, dress tucked between her knees.

Four corners to four streets.  Two people on two different streets.  They stand, firmly, looking at each other from side to side.  And what they see are two streets.  Side streets, the kind that make you look twice.  In comparison they couldn’t seem more different.  At first glance, though, they both look promising.

Sometimes people stand like anchors.  And not just anchors, but like guardians.  While some-days move with ease, others require to be pushed along.  People try to move along, the days trying to move– along the same road.  Then they split, and those that stood there while they split,  can only see in front of them.  Without knowing, behind them the roads split.  And because they are caught looking at the road splitting, not in front of them, but behind their neighbor, they never notice.

That’s who we meet.  A woman with her attention to a man.  Behind him she watches the roads diverge.  Perhaps she even thinks, the harder she looks the more she’ll understand the man.  Then there’s the man, on the other corner.  Standing and shouting, “Let me out.”  Why is he saying that?  What could he possibly be talking about?

She has him trapped.

The darkness never described it.  And if you said it was yellow, I would never believe you.  But, then, what is that outside.  Tonight, as the sprinklers turn on and all that can be heard is water dropping.  In the heat of summer, in this little park.  The kids were up a little while ago, they now are asleep.  Then as the sun leaves the sky, adults wake to their habits.  Underneath the lamp-post, up so high, the light flickers.  And soaking in the light the adults stand on the edge of the concrete, catching the last sprinkles, like waves crashing– drowning the silence.

There, the side of the building is getting wet.  The patch of water is visible, the adults are watching from a distance.  There along the wall, the water attempts the impossible.  Raising itself out– of itself, it moves upward toward the sky.  Beaneath it, the concrete lures the water into itself.  The water continues, and the longer it resists, the more tenuous the struggle.

People are small, if only they knew.  Lining the concrete, imitating the curves of the city-planners, people cross designated paths.  Nature is silent, as one person keeps their promise– and another fails.  Down one path to the edge of the alley.  Between the faults the blades of grass grow.  If only for a season, they manage to widen and green: hills, mountains, and landscapes of nations.  Then people blossom like wild-flowers.  Kicking and screaming, the sound of grass blades touching– stops, as people live on-and-on.

If only everyone made sand angels.  Laying down, kicking and screaming into the heart of the earth.  That’s where one can take a deep breadth, trying to revive the inanimate.  Though sand is more monotone, its grain is more like blades than expected.  Look for example at the results of making love– in the sand.

And whose reflection is that?  Are you looking into the puddle, made by the sprinklers?  That there, is nothing more than water upon the concrete.  It will stay there, it will move.  As for the people, though, they’re unpredictable.  It’s their kicking and screaming that I’m worried about.  See that one there, it doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.

As lines meet, at the end of the road, do they cross?  Can lines, like ideas, cross?  Remember an idea- that little Notion, determinate and simple.  “An Idea has two sides,” Hegel said,  “The positive and negative side, making-up it’s appearance.”  Of course we only see one-side, normally, the positive side.  Even if, the positive side is bad.  So bad, that all we see is the bad- remembering only it.  For all that, it’s still positive. And yet, there is another side.  Contained within the idea there is another side.  Another side, which only a few days ago was, the only side we could remember.  That side, the Real side- the negative side.

Remember how parallel lines cross- in the distance.  Two sides- remember.  The side, today on the right, tomorrow, the left.  But that’s not the only side- switch, though.  Because there is, still, the side before the lines cross.  In fact, what is that other side, after the lines cross?  At least for us?  For us on this side.  What are directions like: right today and left tomorrow, to us?  What are directions if crossed?

Thinking of lines, and how they cross, reminds me of ideas.  How it is that ideas differ from one another.  One idea representing this, and another, representing that.  Ideas differing in this way, is like ideas talking to one another: one idea to another idea- then to another.  Like we do, ideas sometimes hear each other, and sometimes they don’t.  Unable to give each other everything, like information about their own where-abouts– in short– direction, they instead ask each other questions.  The questions, if answered, are given in the negative.  A typical response to the address of another is: No, I have not . . . .

But, do you notice?  New ideas begin just shortly after the correct answer: No.  Usually a response is complete after one word, yet for some reason, they also continue.  What is that continuance?  Why, even after answering the question, would the idea repeat the question- or if lucky, say something else?

Consider repeating the question.  Reading someone else’s thoughts, thinking to oneself out loud.  “Ask the same for me, for friends should have all things in common.” Phaedrus told Socrates.  What we expect Socrates to say is Yes or No.  If yes, then he’ll begin again.  If no, then he’ll begin again.  Either way, he is always explaining himself to Phaedrus- if Phaedrus is still in ear’s reach.  Yes! Phaedrus.  No, Phaedrus.  We imagine Socrates replying.  Instead, Socrates says, “Let us go.”

Repeating the question, isn’t much different from, asking the same for someone else.  For isn’t Phaedrus asking Socrates a simple question, which if heard right, is only asking Socrates to repeat himself.  And if so, Phaedrus knows Socrates is thinking of him.  But what Phaedrus isn’t asking Socrates, is to think for him.  Instead, if Socrates is thinking of him, then he will understand that if he repeats himself, there is nothing more he could do– for a friend.

Phaedrus isn’t asking Socrates to think for him- at least no more than he is asking him to think for himself.  That is, Phaedrus isn’t asking Socrates to do  the impossible, the death-defying act of knowing himself from another persepctive.  He isn’t asking him to find himself, even if possible, and then tell.  No, he is simply asking Socrates to repeat what he heard from someone else.  Someone, who also heard, from someone else.  Phaedrus, then, is only asking Socrates to remember, perhaps something arbitrary, but certainly not difficult.  It is something so basic, it takes only a Yes or No to relate.  Yes, I remember.  No, I don’t.  Yes, I’m thinking of you.  No, I’m not.

Instead, Socrates says, “Let us go.”  Why, if he could say yes or no, in fewer words, say that?  Unfortunately words like yes or no have a connotation with logic.  Like parallel lines, they tangle upon the horizon.  And like lines, they can be followed easily- with an amount of safety.  But only from a distance!  Remember how parallel lines have two sides: this side before and the other side after they cross.  And ideas, how they relate and address one another: in questions.  So ideas, in particular, relate in crossing paths.  The singular event- how distant ideas relate, is where the Yes or No is given.  The doubling of Yes or No.  The minimal event, of questions and answers, is wrapped tightly along the horizon.  And so the distance, necessitating the question, is again repeated in the answer.

“Let us go,” I say instead, remember.  Let us answer the question, by repeating the question.  And assume not their difference, but their similarity: unity, simplicity, minimal- possibility.  By saying the same thing, repeatedly, the day someone stops questioning and begins repeating you, is the day of equality.  The day they are on the same side as you.  Stopping just short of the horizon, you’ll both be turning, to remember each other.  And what was deceptively safe, will be avoided.