THE STRUGGLE TO HEAL THE WOUNDS OF HISTORY

the qualities of light

We were drinking jasmine tea

in the dusk on the cedar deck,

the last gleaming gone to a deeper blue.


Summer blue, the evening star

shooting hard out of the shadows.

Over the pond, the first tiny bats

skimmed the surface for mosquitoes,

drinking from the reflected sky.


The light is always with us.
We know the world by light
and by the loss of light:


the brutality of noon;
the promising grey
before a dawn
creeping with tentative bird song;

the same grey that signifies
a night wildly spent,
the one
where we all hang on too long;
the stab of yellow
through the evergreens

in that last bolt before sunset;
the green flash

when the sun hits the water;
the deep, unknown glow in a woman’s eyes
as she lifts her legs beneath you
and offers a taste of grace;
the sparks when you hit your head
on the high spike from nowhere;
the tangible air in the mists
of morning
in a corn field;


or the mountain looking back from

a candy-blue lake in the alpine country.


The memory of that lost lake retained
in the pond beyond the deck


where we sit and dream
the quiet emotions of dusk.


Yes, the light holds us in its hands

until, one day, we catch ourselves

sitting on that deck with our jasmine tea

in fine ceramic bowls; and we realize

we’ve learned to understand fear,

the promise that can’t be kept,

the loamy soil;

the sweet, bacterial earth

where we all began

and where we all go


away from the light.

pieces

we fit

like small

puzzle pieces

tiny things

who together 

create a whole


like two

pieces of shard glass

whose seams seem

to fuse


and if we

hold them

there

they look

like they were never

broken

Like the river flows

Surely to the sea,

Darling so it goes,

Some things were meant to be.

tongues

tongues laced in

stories move

in and out of everything

nothing

is inanimate


tongues tied in

sacred words

transcend ceremony

into every

day


tongues knotted in

verbs long and wanting

to be understood

meaning shape

shifts


its context

out of past

tense and renewed 

each time

inches

we move in

inches

not leaps

or bounds

time is different

here


we gesture

together

then apart

again

left

somewhere

quite small

only a little

beyond where

we were


but we feel it

in our bones

in the sinew-skin of our intertwined

fingers

when we walk

under the elms

where buds bring out

their almost

green


when we sigh 

into the marrow of

a quiet Saturday

stay in 

blend closer


but then

something

and we go

so very far away

again

coil back

a bit

again 

before


we move

in inches

broken

because we are 

broken

there are cracks

in us

where the dark 

gets in


we only hold

ourselves

together

let go

and we fall

let go

and we come

a part


riverevening

dusk as slow as 

heartbreak


river laps in lisps

against dock


still to a sleep

grey and long


sun sinks

trees turn


I miss you

forever


there are so many 

to miss

rhizome

a Rhizome is multiple multiplicities put together in a way that has no structure whatsoever at all,,,


To illustrate this let’s compare a tree with ginger. Imagine a tree with roots extending into the ground, a trunk coming up out of the ground, and branches that go into the sky. This image presents a beginning at the bottom, and one desired end at the top. Where the tree is rooted in logic, ginger growth doesn’t really make any sense at all. It has no top or bottom and goes off in every-which-way.


any point of a rhizome(us) can be connected to any other, 

no matter how similar or different.

the rhizome(we) can be broken at any point,

but it will(you can) always start up again.

adding or taking ( us) away from it changes the way it(we) looks;

but also how it(we) feels.


Think of the Rhizome as a map, something that can always be entered at any point, thus there is no set starting point. What it helps us see is that the Rhizome is not just a thing, but a process. The emphasis of Rhizome is not on what is, or what was, but more on…what can become of it?

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