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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476718" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>It's Stranger To Conceive Of Me</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's stranger to conceive of me as I am <br>than to imagine that I'm someone else.<br>There's more largesse in the early spring air. <br>You can tell by the tears that well up in their eyes <br>the glacial stars are beginning to thaw splinter by splinter<br>withdrawing their claws from the corpse of the snow<br>like thorns from the Lion's paw overhead. <br>I can hear water in the creek tuning up <br>for the dance to come as soon as <br>the first violins of the crocuses get here, <br>the trout lily, the purple passage of the wild violet <br>under a leaf it took like a page from the book of autumn, <br>trout lily, hepatica, wood sorrel, grape hyacinth.<br>I like it here because it doesn't matter who I am. <br>Things are alert and vivid with life because <br>they're not threatened by the possession of it. <br>And time is a lot more honest <br>here where it lets its hair down <br>than it is back in town <br>where it's always now, now, now, <br>and the streetlights, blinded by their own blazing <br>turn their backs on the stars <br>like the distant fires of native peoples<br>who preferred to dance to see<br>where they were going at night <br>than watch their step <br>like the next best real estate deal. <br>Even without intention, every time <br>I try to shape space with my mouth <br>and say this is who I am, this is me <br>whatever similitude I use I always feel <br>I'm exhuming a dead metaphor <br>from the coffin of a word <br>that's been taken out of the context of the world<br>and put on display in a dream museum.<br>It's as if I can relate the history of smoke <br>but not the flame that lived it. <br>As if one of these half-submerged skulls of rock <br>that have been trying <br>to pave their way across the creek<br>for as long as I've been crossing here<br>were to try and understand the mindstream <br>that's been ploughing around them for lightyears, <br>not realizing what they're rooted in like cornerstones, <br>are islands on the moon, mere shadows of water, <br>mirages on the tongue of those who have<br>never tasted it like their own blood <br>to know whether it was hot or cold, <br>blue or red, sweet or sour, real or not.<br>The earth can sleep a little longer yet <br>under this tapestry of snow while<br>the dreamweaver at the loom of the moon <br>is unravelling the threads of a thousand loose night creeks<br>the sea will gather up again into an oceanic consciousness <br>of the flying carpet of wavelengths and life themes <br>we're riding on well out of reach of ourselves <br>like waterlilies in winter when it's coldest, <br>and snowflakes on a furnace when it's hot. <br>It's as fun to say it as it is to play with hula hoops. <br>The ecliptic intersects the celestial equator <br>at the equinoctial colure and it's spring <br>in the northern hemisphere. Canada geese <br>thread their way like rosaries of snake skulls<br>through the stars in the eyes of northern lakes <br>peeping through the cataracts of ice and clouds <br>breaking up like mirrors that can only <br>hold this pose of starmud for so long <br>before it's time to change studios again<br>to keep up with the light <br>that's trying to capture your likeness <br>like the whole of the sky on the skin <br>of a dropp of the water of life<br>that reflects like a mirror <br>but sees through appearances <br>into the deeper darkness <br>like a gravitational lens of pure insight, <br>the lamp in the hand of the light that leads it<br>like a blind lighthouse to the perilous reefs <br>of morning on the moon among the corals.<br>Was I born to wonder what, who I am <br>or not, as is more highly probable? <br>Is the persistence of the question, the way <br>it makes you suddenly look up <br>from a seemingly unrelated matter <br>at the moon in the black walnut trees <br>or a bird in passing that commands your attention <br>without in the least meaning to<br>until everything but it feels like the intrusion.<br>Is the question on the agenda of the answer <br>or does it have a life of its own, <br>a journey that doesn't end in a key? <br>I look at all these twisted forms of life, <br>not cast out, but abandoned, these <br>deadly gray limbs of swamp wood <br>silking their legs in the moonlight, <br>these mauled pines that look more like weather <br>than evergreens, the sparse, despirited crimson<br>of the ground willow paintbrushes <br>that have lost their handles in the snow<br>waiting like a newly primed canvas<br>for the first rose petal of blood<br>to fall from Virgo as a sign of consummation.<br>Things, forms, things of the world, <br>things of the bodymind that shapes them <br>out of starmud, out of the outer receptacles<br>of the five senses on each hand, <br>that conceives of a bee like a hollyhock<br>calling it into being like the fragrance<br>of something that was said, but wasn't <br>meant to be heard by anyone else.<br>Animate and inanimate alike <br>a grammar of things, ritual magic<br>and we're the diction, <br>we're the verbs and nouns of the spell <br>that keeps us creating the world in tongues<br>so even as strangers we end up speaking <br>the same language as stones and stars and birds. <br>Maybe the question is just an answer <br>that's travelled back in time from the future <br>to ask the prophetic skulls of its own ancestors <br>if any of them had foreseen what was to come? <br>Or the question is all and the answer is negligible? <br>Or left speechless, you achieve wisdom? <br>Or left unanswered, you awaken <br>your own creative freedom <br>like a world you didn't know <br>you had it in you to make any way you want<br>in case this one doesn't fit, you don't have to bear it. <br>Absurd as it seems to seed your dreams <br>and expect to harvest them when you wake up, <br>and yet I've seen it happening all around me <br>every day of my life, objects, symbols, stars, <br>insights casting shadows of themselves <br>into the darkness as far as the light <br>they've been given to go by, <br>sowing the available dimensions of the future<br>with a world that isn't so much said into being, <br>but arrayed lucidly before us<br>like eyes full of mystery that don't reveal a thing.<br>I sit on this rock and I watch the night creek <br>until I can't tell which one of us is flowing<br>and it occurs to me that maybe the question itself <br>is the crucial essential of my existential dilemma <br>and the answer's only the temporary afterlife<br>of who I'm becoming now. Not as I appear; <br>not as the psychic life of a heart-broken mirror, <br>not as the mirage of a snowblind seer <br>who approachs the desert on my threshold with a broom <br>as if I were trying to keep house in an hourglass.<br>I don't sweep the stars off my stairs.<br>I don't follow a trail of breadcrumbs <br>in the corners of the eyes of last night's dream<br>as if someone had been here before me.<br>I don't pass myself off like counterfeit leaves in the spring.<br>Honesty isn't a fact. And clarity isn't a starmap.<br>And love's only another religious con <br>if it isn't wholly unconditional and inclusive. <br>I'm not looking for asylum in the abyss <br>like some petty alternative to living this <br>without knowing what this is or I am <br>or at least trying to get my ignorance <br>as close as humanly possible to it as I can<br>whether it's aware of me, these stars, this <br>broken thatch of wild rice, wheat, and cattails, or not.<br>Then I will celebrate the creativity of its absence<br>with reverence and compassion for all <br>that it's left in its wake like a sleepwalker<br>shaping this mindscape like a retreating glacier. <br>All that abide here with me tonight <br>like the gateless gate of an open mind <br>wondering if there's anything left to catch up to<br>that embodies the dignity of the beginning <br>in the dead of winter, as apparently it does in the spring. <br>Or if we're all words in a language <br>we're just learning to speak on our own <br>that can point to anything, say anything <br>except themselves to themselves<br>whenever the question comes up<br>about whether they mean anything at all <br>when they're not leaning on the world to exist<br>as we all do, trying to make sense of it<br>in this dumb-founded dialogue of wonder.</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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than to imagine that I'm someone else.
There's more largesse in the early spring air. 
You can tell by the tears that well up in their eyes 
the glacial stars are beginning to thaw splinter by splinter
with..."></div>
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