On the Weirdness Near Dead Things

 

What does it mean   to have an idea?

Step outside of that.

Everything is weird.

To have an idea  means
	to stop the weirdness of things.

Any thought, and we're all back in High School.

We know who our fathers are
	and what a father is.

Mr. Solomon has hung himself
Hortense said
because he lost his businesses.

And his daughters suddenly seem sort of weird.

Lois Cadin was run over on her bicycle
and her father bought a big dog
and came around to visit everyone
and he seemed sort of weird.

No ideas
about death
dispel the weird
little aura that contaminates
the intimate
survivors.

My mother was afraid of cats.

But before she died
she allowed
a little white one
to come in and live with us.

She died. And I
seemed weird
to my own
perusal. Something tightened
in the light.
Eyes
without hairs.

*

Would you rather live when
	paradigms are breaking down
               or
	 when
         new theories
		burgeoning
			with broad predictive powers
	all seem confirmed?


The feeling that we "know" what's going on
	
	then

the loss of that.


So Newton, Aristotle, whomever

	proved wrong

			on basic points.

Zoroaster, Buddha
contradicted
	anywhere
	     but never "wrong"
      in that sense


the weirdness
             programmed
        in
to the root
    of the doctrine
	such
      that the doctrine’s loss
		confirms
	rather than denies
		the essential point  in it.



Whole peoples -- seem a little weird -- now that that 
	idea -- the one that moved the blood in them --
		has been reft from them.

Think of the welcome of the White Men as old gods returning
	-- not only the hideous irony of the consequence
     but see those people standing on the shore
	pervaded by an aura
		whose true portent
	   remained concealed from them.

You can taste the chill.




Being doesn't die.

And you who
are not
as you seem --
but Being    alone    is all that Is in you   --

the residue -- the oddness 
of existence itself  --
the glow
still fading
after
the flame's out.




In the woods – these 
sugar maples, aspens, ash, or oak--
they are not trees
if addressed
from near enough to know the work
of texture, habitat, root clutch stone.

Names
restrain themselves
before the fabulous intimacy
of contact ever deepening

the weirdness resolved in intimacy, not idea --
the surge of Being in being with     without termination
					in positings of the known
but journeyings along itself
	through itself
		
		micro-world and body-depth
			redounding
			in ever-subtler, self-instructed motion

		toward      

			Continuum

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