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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476557" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Enraptured By The All-Inclusive Mystic Specificity</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Enraptured by the all-inclusive mystic specificity <br>of terrestrial things. <br>Appalled by the inhumanity of the way <br>humans can so easily inflict <br>what they fear the most <br>upon each other <br>as if there were some strange alien duty <br>in their reptilian cruelty, <br>some small nugget of the meteor that struck the earth <br>back in the late Triassic <br>that we've retained like an R-complex <br>savagely jealous of the rest of the brain. <br>I can get along without matter <br>as does most of the universe<br>and the eastern dawns of Asia do<br>but mind and form are a different issue.<br>When water thinks deeply <br>about what it might be <br>it's always a sea <br>with a small stream of consciousness running into it like me.<br>It's a way of picturing the inconceivable for a moment <br>when time wants to be seen <br>walking in a world of forms <br>it effaces like the meaning of dreams.<br>A provisional scaffolding of smoke <br>to climb up on and paint<br>the miraculous birth of water <br>before it became a saint.<br>I've sat around the old fires <br>of autumn ghosts on a distant hillside <br>and listened to the stories they tell<br>of how wild and free words were <br>to name things in the garden as they liked <br>until God discovered his voice.<br>And flowers and stars <br>were no longer mystic gestures <br>of existential glee<br>that expressed themselves spontaneously <br>as if the gene-pool of the fireflies <br>were always dreaming up <br>new myths to explain to the constellations<br>how they came to arise <br>over the event horizons <br>of our cosmic windowsills<br>after so many years of longing, <br>but a choice they're compelled to make <br>atom by atom <br>star by star <br>as if they were trying to say <br>something as enduring and meaningful <br>as an aqueduct flatlining <br>like a waterclock without a pulse to speak of.<br>The sun doesn't tell the wildflowers where to grow. <br>You can't dispel the mystery of being here at all <br>with the things you think you know. <br>Let go. <br>Let go. <br>Let go. <br>There's no freedom in a fist. <br>There's no captive in an open hand.<br>There's no way to get a grasp on space <br>without giving it your face. <br>You can look at life as if it were all absurd. <br>Credo ergo absurdum.<br>I believe because it's absurd<br>according to St. Jerome.<br>Or you can venture further from home than that <br>and explore life as if there were nothing to understand <br>because you already do <br>or you wouldn't be you<br>trying to give the word <br>to every new creation <br>as if the last thing you wrote <br>like hieroglyphics in quicksand<br>kept returning to where it began<br>like the pearls of wisdom <br>that come of all these <br>cosmic grains of the universe<br>that agitate the tongue of the absurd <br>into saying something crazy to the moon<br>she's never heard before.<br>All things are modes of expression <br>but the muse doesn't open her door <br>to the pimps of inspiration <br>who think she's a whore. <br>And it's a death worse than neglect<br>to turn your calling into a project <br>and build a palace of ice in the desert <br>to house your accomplishments <br>like snowflakes in a furnace. <br>Say what you must say<br>as if the words weren't your own<br>but the natural eloquence of the lifestream<br>saying the moonlight in passing. <br>Like a man on a long dark road<br>in an unknown country <br>who talks to himself <br>as if he weren't alone with everything <br>like a foreign language <br>that asks him his name <br>and he says it in a way<br>it can't forget<br>that water is wave <br>fire is flame <br>air is wind <br>earth is dirt<br>body is flesh <br>mind is form<br>and the seven sisters of the Pleiades <br>going down over the rooftops <br>of the abandoned farm <br>and the roses that have kept on growing<br>and the hills that have learned <br>to keep things to themselves<br>and the gate that hangs by one hinge<br>like last year <br>now there's nothing <br>to keep in or out<br>are all radically rooted <br>in what must disappear<br>in the now and here <br>of the mysterium tremendum <br>in order to become<br>you and I and us and them<br>looking for signs<br>of where we come from<br>to ratify our intellectual pursuits <br>though our original home <br>is the same long road <br>we've been walking for years<br>that still clings like starmud to our boots<br>that keep tracking us <br>like homeless silver thresholds<br>and the Milky Ways of garden snails <br>into the house of life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476557" data-title="Enraptured By The All-Inclusive Mystic Specificity de Patrick White" data-description="Enraptured by the all-inclusive mystic specificity 
of terrestrial things. 
Appalled by the inhumanity of the way 
humans can so easily inflict 
what they fear the most 
upon each other 
as if there were some strange alien duty 
in their reptilian..."></div>
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