from angels to diamonds

you. you do not exist. only my experience of you lives in the sweetest corner of my memories. when two years ago i wrote to you and told you that i wanted to experience you, it was exactly this experiencing-you that i meant.

"il faut laisser les fantasmes être des fantasmes"

we agree, but then we always agree and this agreement is exactly the nature of our fear.

is agreement always this frightening?

i do not dare think the thoughts that i want to think, and i can not but be delighted in all around me. i like the silence that my lack of understanding of the experience brings.

the anticipation and the adventure

who is anticipation?

who is adventure?

the love affair with the muse can be a bitch on occasions. now it is the anticipation of the proximity of all that immense silence approaching us. yes, it is the silence that i most dearly share with you. the silence, the much sought silence of the monk's existence.

this monk exists, that muse breathes, and i am about to feel nothing at all. ecstasy!

the absence of feeling, the divestment of passion, the abandon to what is and emerges, that is ecstasy. you know that, don't you?

it was nothing that you could tell me, it was something that you taught me. if you had told me, i would not have listened. if you had insisted, i would have resisted. if you had bribed my intellect, i would have adulterated the air that you breathe. yet, you taught.

but what is the lesson learned that was taught? what it what you said, or was it what you did not say?

ah!

being an angel

that you are an angel is not known. that you are named after one is very well known. that angels are nothing but a figure of speech is perhaps not everybody's understanding of the concept.

just on saturday when walking with one of my cousins from the cemetery into town after a family funeral, i was approached by a man whose face seemed familiar. i could not place where i had seen his face before. our dialogue was a play in misunderstandings. the man approaches me and tells me that he heard that i was the daughter of so and so. i, never being too serious, much less at a funeral of a very old and very dear family member, and certainly being in an environment where i have lost touch with the culture and somewhat irritated that i was being addressed without a proper introduction, then just responded in kind that i had heard the same thing, but that i certainly could never be sure. the identity of one's father is somehow always a matter of faith, or else it needs hard-core scientific proof. the man addressing me was rather confused at this point, and i really was not fully engaged in the conversation. eventually i realized that the man did not share my sense of humour and tried to clarify the situation. my impression is that he remained unconvinced. whatever the interaction was it reminded me how language and humour are so very culture-context dependent. after this little dialogue and once the man was at some distance, i asked my cousin who he was. then it made sense, then the whole conversation made sense. the higher world of ignorant intrigue and the wonderful way that misunderstandings propagate in a small community became very apparent to me.

contention and misunderstandings are easy. each one of us creates his own reality populated with his/her own truths. perhaps it is the many hours of silence that we have spent together, or it is because you have dared to caress my ego and the certainty of what is a non-personal interaction that makes me think of you whenever i find myself unsure. i chose you as a teacher, you do not force your teachings on me. i have chosen you as a muse, you do not force inspiration on me. if you were an illusion or a delusion, you would be the most empowering of all illusions and an absolute truth.