Putzing about and listening to William Fitzsimmons…somber, almost painfully candid singer/songwriter, and there is a lingering feeling of something that I can’t put my finger on..
And that seems to happen a lot lately… I find that I undulate between 1) grappling with not being conscious enough of what I feel and 2) feeling everything, but differently than I used to. I find that lately little things wreck me,.. that I can be sitting in a coffee shop catching up on my friend’s blog, and tears just drip out for things I’m reading, I brush past cloth that was given to me in a country I love deeply or I drive and listen to something that simply raises bumps all over the surface of my skin…makes them ripple out of nothing—ex-ni-he-lo—like they were always there… I’m not used to responses being so visceral, so wordless, unnamable…
I’ve been moving, and something about packing one place to turn it into another… undoing, deconstructing one era to build a new one; and maybe that’s a dramatic way of putting it, but somehow this time I don’t think it is. I was pulling apart a lovely apartment, a hobbit-home abode, ridiculous arched walls, where the bedroom was the living room was the foyer, and where the kitchen was the closet was the bathroom :), and everything I’d bought was designed to contain something else. Years of me bloomed there and some of me retracted there, and then there was the knowing that it was time to go. And now as I have been unpacking, I find I’m pulling out remnants and pieces of everything, and I am filled with nostalgia for things that are larger than me and that I may not have experienced yet.
One of my new roommates and I were talking this afternoon, and she mentioned the Creation… how first, for several days of the-seven-day-beginning-of-everything, God separated things: earth from water, darkness from light, one kind of expanse from another—stretching long and ruddy—bursting out blackness that couldn’t know itself yet. And then he filled it. Birds, trees, men, LIFE for the pulled matter-from-matter. But after. After separation, after movement. Then filling with all the things that are supposed to be there, in that place, then.
May it be so.
Posted on 6 October 2008 at 12:05 AM Comments (0)
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