Our graying hair

I have gray hairs. I have long hair. How long will it be before I have gray hair?

I long for a radiant woman whose hairs are also gray. I see her long hair and her dark eyes and I crave for this being. I see her skin and I crave for her.

How long will it be before she has gray hair?

Will my radiant love and I age and gray well? Will we write less and shine forth more? Will we, during the summer doldrums, lie in bed in corpse pose and sweat softly and touch only our pinkie fingers?

How long will it be before we long less and less because we are alone less? How long before we die?

I will want her silence as she will want mine. We will have no need to lend. We will want our love to be full and full and full of silence.

‘Come here love…’

Come here love:
the evening itches on,
like limbs inching unseen,
each stretch kept under quiet wraps,
his purr lending peonies, their
wings rinsing the other’s dark silence.

*   *   *

Now, the window thyme
in morning sun. Now,
the long trunk but an X-axis. Yet:
a single sprig is yenning Up.

*   *   *

I dropped the breakfast bowl.
It broke,
I didn’t notice.
My heart,
long-lingering, undropped:
rest here and notice.

Thanks to three conversation partners who inspired me to write these three poetic replies. The first poem is a collage made up of her prose. The other two were written yesterday morning in response to certain inquiries. There is thyme on my window sill and I did drop my breakfast bowl onto the floor. My thoughts had long been elsewhere.

A Gothic afternoon

For two days, the morning fog has blanketed the hillside rising above the cabin. It is, she is right, a bony, smoky shade. We were standing at the lookout when she said the last. We had hiked up a red clay path on a Gothic afternoon–gray sky, abandoned ruins, blasted trees–only to stop at the edge of the cliff to sit and look abroad and point.

The fog was fast moving. Rising from an unseen source, it billowed and furled and rolled across the scene. When we first arrived, it framed a Dutch village immediately before us yet far off, framed the village, that is, while also keeping it hidden. Soon, the sun had changed things, opening up the view, casting light on the blasted trees and verdant fields, revealing to us the welcoming clouds. All around us–behind, below, far off–the trees had grown up to face the sun. They angled toward sunlight, grew into permanent bends, yearned for more.

Did we yearn for more? I do not think so.

A hiker came up us with determined step. “Cloudy,” she said, looked around, and then proceeded to leave. I wondered what she came for.

On the art of longing for a radiant way of being

The truth of metaphysics is revealed in the question, “Can this [way of life] be all?” (Adorno, Negative Dialectics). My longing is a longing for another way of life beyond the one I inhabit.

The truth of the perdurance of the soul is that of a being that leaves behind one way of life but without that being also being left behind within that way of life. I want my soul to turn over in its turning toward another. My soul longs for transformation in a heaven just over yonder but not beyond my reach, the heaven of radiant human existence.

I want my soul to be radiant, want for nothing apart from this because there is no-thing apart from this, this experience of radiance.

The truth of god’s divinity is the mystery of existence, one to which my soul longs to be ever attuned, longs whenever it meditates not on this entity or that one but on being qua being: being being the source of entities, the wellspring of all transient beings, all transient because coming into existence and go out of existence. Being is the ever-unfolding of all transience existence. Being, thusly, is not the tree, being is not ‘behind’ the tree, being is the tree’s life expressed fully in the tree’s becoming with the rest of existence. Being is visible fully in (but not as) the mountain if only we are properly attuned.

Being is the indwelling spirit of all earthly existence.

I speak of being.

I speak of my soul’s longing to be attuned to the mystery of existence evident in all myriad beings, in the trees’ unfolding and the child’s unfolding, in the unfolding of my words into yours, in the unfolding of the lives of my beloveds, lives folding, unfolding into mine in myriad lovings.

Being is loving and insofar as I am loving I too am being.

I want my longing for radiance to be more than a longing for radiance. I want to be at one with being, being thoroughgoingly radiant myself.

I hear “Can this be all?” and I fret.

Shall I renounce the question or shall I listen? I hear renounce but if I listen, then I may be horrified and attracted, both at once, to the sense that there could be an otherwise than the way I live now, than the way I have lived for so long.

(For too long? For too long the nights?)

I long.

Horrified because this way of life has been good, was what I had wanted, was what I said I wanted, wanted from this life of mine, wanted when I was young and wounded. Was but young and wounded.

And I do not want.

(I rage against myself. Rage violently. Feel cheated by the injustice. Rage at myself. How can I be so brittle, so uncommitted, so unfaithful to this way of life? And how can I be so ungrateful for what I have? What is the matter with me? Are my demands those of the dissenter, as when Milton’s Lucifer denies God’s authority and is banished? I rage, I gnash and rage. I prowl, enraged, Medea.)

I hate myself.

(Or am I looking for light, the light I already feel if in loving intimations? And why cannot I not dwell there, among kindred others? I have felt their touch and I love them, their touch.)

I hear, Renounce the question. I hear, be reasonable by god. I hear, Ask for less from this life.

I am tempted to turn away from the question, perhaps out of a sense of guilt, perhaps out of a sense of shame, perhaps because I am weak and cannot bear the interregnum.

If I suffer my longing, will not others suffer my following my longing? Can I bear?

How could what I have not be enough? How come? Why not? Because, yes, because having is not the same as being. Yes, because I want not to have but to be, to be in the light of being, radiantly. And if I reject the question, “Can this be all?,” then I can only claim that this way of life has to be final, so has to be the rest of my life, my staling breaths before me.

Get tough, I say. Get used to it. Become hard so that my longing can be ignored, disavowed, renounced for good.

My god.

My longing must go away. I must make it go away.

But the longing, just because it is a longing, returns, returns doubly and triply, in manifold ways, and, returning, will not go away. (Why won’t it leave me be? How shall I ask my longing to go?)

But if I follow it, so seduced, how will I not become MacBeth, how not be afraid to think of what I will have done?

I am stuck. For if I reject the question, then it seems as if I must hold to a ‘final picture’ of this way of life–this still frame that haunts me, taking what air remains from out of my lungs–how to go on in this way of life that, I know, cannot ultimately satisfy? How to go on. How to live.

(But why won’t it satisfy?!? I rage, Medea.)

I am niggled by despair, now quiet, now heavy, because this way of life has ceased its unfolding, having stopped at its end. This way of life has gone but goes on in being gone so long as I remain. It persists with me, without me, ensnaring me.

It is and I am not. It is not and I am.

I exclaim, My God! Where is the air? Where is my air, the air meant for me? The airless air unholds me, depletes me, draws in around me, staling me. I think, this way of life must be ‘final’, must be ‘over.’ I think this must be it. I think, but still, still there is this stirring intimation of an otherwise, of a life’s going otherwise, of my life going otherwise.

Leave me, O longing. Or, if you must stay, then let me long with you, O my longing for an otherwise.

(How can this be, this longing like a friend unnamed, uncalled, called? What is the matter with me that this is not enough, this way I had wanted, a way that would end my sufferings? And yet why do I despair that this way of life would be ‘all there is’? Why can’t I hold my longings ‘in check,’ why not hold them at bay, why not put them off to one side? And why do these longings, despite my No’s, despite my ruthless will and protestations, persist, persist in spite of me, persist like a hunger within me, throughout me?)

Is it enough that I let my longing long with me? That I cease fighting my longing and listen? Then will I cease and see?

O let me hear you, O this longing. When I do, when I attune myself to you, to your question, “Could there be an otherwise to the way of being now?,” then I know I am inviting self-transformation (metanoia). It is not temptation, seduction. For it may seem, once seemed, as if I could simply add in the otherwise as if to say that I have A + B + C and here D, come here, D. Thus: A + B + C + D. I want that: to just ‘add in’ the longing on my own terms. Add one piece to the puzzle, one ingredient to the recipe, one window to the house, one more item to the list.

No, that may never be, because so long as I try to add you in, I misunderstand you, my longing, I mangle you in summing things up with you. When I sum things up with you, I lose you in the calculations.

Instead, it may happen that the ‘otherwise’ may not be that way, may not come my way that way, may, simply, not make itself available to ‘simply being added in.’ I fear it will be that way, that this is another way of being not ‘combinable’ with this the way I lived so far. I fear, I fear what this longing may be saying, may be asking of me. But also I do not fear but I hope.

I fear my longing, it is true, because it asks me to be otherwise. I long to be otherwise, long to be whole but I also fear it.

I long to be whole, this longing my hope of being whole. And so I hope.

My longing, a bare intimation, asks me to bear being otherwise than I am now and have been. You ask much of me, O my longing, and I do not know if, being infinite, it is ‘too much.’

You ask me to stay.

I stay. I hold fast. We are gentle now. I listen to you my longing, hear you saying that there is not something the matter with me, that there never has been. You my longing ask only, for now, that I stop turning away from you, asks only that I dwell with you, within you. You my longing invite me to see you as longing rather than as an other to be denied or refused.

You ask me to stay and I stay with you.

I must be patient, with you, must acknowledge that I my longing is neither good nor bad in itself but a wellspring of life, an intimation on the way to further self-understanding, a blessing therefore. A blessing therefore, not a curse. Therefore, a holy of holies: could it be that I am being called, by my longing, to face you, to listen to you, to be graced and touched by you? And could my longing, you seeming darkness, become a question rather than a mere craving? Could your question open itself to me, allow itself, you yourself, to be answered? Wonder of wonders, this light out of darkness, you.

Wonder of wonders that I could live you my longing and my longing you lead me forth into the land without longing.

The longing that is mine, you, the longing I take in and therefore let be my own, you are y dissatisfaction but not my pain. I cannot be to blame for my longing’s calling me to being. Longing, you urge upon me to hold myself to your very long note, to dwell within this discord and your promise, this darkness and your light. My longing, you imply that the last question (what is to be done? better: how must my life unfold?) is coming too soon, coming out of a sense of fear of my having to give up everything I have for the sake of a way I know not fully. My longing, you are listening to me and I must listen to you, must attune myself to you in hopes that I can understand better what you are asking.

My longing, you beg me to enfold you in beautiful words: in true words touched by beauty, in true others bathed in beauty.

My longing, I know, I know that you are a question asking to be asked, not an answer to be forced. I will not force you, neither force nor deny you. As a question asking to be asked, you are also my hoping for an answer to be lived, an answer I can live, will live, live. Live and live radiantly, now, such living putting me in touch with your aim: the radiance that is never at arm’s length but ever in my hands and breaths and children and everywhere I ever am. Longing, you long to carry me through and then, after, once there, here, you mean to let me go.

Bernini’s Pluto and Proserpina: Beauty, death, and eros

The image you are looking at was not taken by a camera. Nor were the fingers pressed into the underside of the woman’s thigh. Nor the index finger–his left index finger–hooked onto her lower rib, marking it. Nor the veins on her butt beginning at the the top of her hip. Nor was the birthmark around the back of her knee, almost touched by her calf. Her left breast and the horizontal scars visible across the back of her left arm are not real either. Her shoulder, flexed, hints at strain.

The scene is dominated by hands and fingers. The thumb, knuckles, and wrist of his left hand all seem certain. His right hand, climbing up and around, is much hungrier, the little finger nearly angry. If his intentions are clear, however, hers are less so. Is she fighting him? Is she into him? Is she grabbing him with even more ferocity? Or shall we conclude all or none?

You are looking at a sculpture. More precisely, an image of a sculpture. It is true: I cannot believe it either.

The woman who sent me the image had come to Rome and, upon beholding these figures, had fallen down on her knees and cried. How could one not, she asked.