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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476987" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Trying To Express</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Trying to express a more immediate intimacy <br>with the life of the mind<br>without attributing a form to madness<br>might just be another way <br>of looking for comic relief <br>from the actual facts <br>of the tragic folly that confronts us <br>like a world that won't tolerate any mask <br>you want to put on it for long<br>to lie about the atrocity of your irrelevance<br>and pretend you don't know <br>what you're looking at. <br>I dream I suffer the same <br>corpuscular purpose as a paramecium. <br>I wake up from these desert mirages <br>and it's true. <br>OK it's true. <br>Next. <br>Because nothing in life is an endgame.<br>And despite the full stop like an empty cup <br>at the end of a thought <br>with the lifespan of a punctuation mark <br>my cup runneth over like the new moon <br>and everything is drunk on the lunacy of its light. <br>It's not the content of life that matters <br>as much as the way space bends <br>to accommodate it.<br>It's not the wine <br>it's the emptiness of the cup <br>that shapes the forms of our knowing <br>so that they can be grasped <br>by our eyes and hands <br>as separate things in the world. <br>Mind is a poet a potter a painter a parent a prophet <br>that will not be bound by its own works<br>or the laws of the defenceless who expound them. <br>Look out into space<br>and the furthest you will ever see <br>is a face in the mirror that's older than matter.<br>Space is a vehicle of transformation <br>that doesn't go anywhere<br>because anywhere it goes <br>its wheels are centered <br>in the still points of themselves<br>as we are to our navels. <br>And all lifelines <br>straight or otherwise <br>are emanations of its radiance. <br>Order and logic and reason <br>are the dry wishbones of the fearful<br>looking for predictability in a world<br>that can't be contained <br>by a unified field theory <br>or an elaborated straitjacket <br>on the fashion ramps of science. <br>Physics says one size fits all<br>but by the time the spiders <br>are finished weaving it <br>the sleeves are always too short <br>to keep up with a universe <br>that's growing at the speed of light <br>and I'd rather walk naked <br>in the skin of my own clarity<br>than be clothed <br>in someone else's hand-me-downs.<br>I'm not out hunting birds and butterflies <br>with a dreamcatcher. <br>I'm not looking for peace and healing <br>by abstaining from myself<br>like a promise I broke to my ancestors. <br>Everyone was born a lifeboat<br>in an abysmal sea of awareness<br>or they wouldn't be here to know it. <br>So who needs to be saved? <br>Or is there some kind of holy war going on <br>between the lifeboats and the waves? <br>And where does Jerusalem go<br>to free itself of infidels <br>when it goes on crusade? <br>All waves are waterbells<br>that never stop tolling <br>and the mindstream<br>they're raised upon <br>is in everyone <br>the sum of what's holy about life. <br>Learn to transcend your certainties <br>if you want to get over your doubts.<br>Don't hoard the effects of your efforts <br>in the name of a good cause <br>that's so blinded by its own light <br>that it can't see <br>that there's as much randomness in the wonder <br>as there is in the horror. <br>That what's most terrifying about life <br>is that it's free<br>of anything you can say or feel or think about it. <br>That every part in every moment<br>is not the sum <br>but the consummation of the whole<br>that roots and flowers in everyone <br>as if it were a secret <br>that bloomed for them alone. <br>To know the names of things <br>like the names of stars and flowers <br>is to look at them from the outside. <br>Who called you Eve? <br>Who called you Adam? <br>If you know your name <br>you're already in exile. <br>But it was not us <br>who were driven out of the garden. <br>Knowledge drives the garden out of us.<br>It turns our eyes around <br>so we can't see Eden from the inside<br>where our beginnings are always now <br>and we are no more dispossessed <br>of our innocence <br>than the passion expressed by a flower<br>in a loveletter to the light <br>can be disenchanted <br>of the insight that inspired it. <br>What's truly tragic about life when it seems so <br>is not that it's evil<br>but that it's innocent<br>and its innocence is older than compassion.<br>The moon sheds its phases. <br>The flower its petals. <br>They're always coming and going <br>from the same abyss they're heading into.<br>The emptiness engenders this abundance <br>out of its own potential for growth <br>and even death is not culpable.<br>This is space. <br>That is space. <br>But the two <br>can no more be separated <br>than a wave can be from water. <br>You don't need a unified field theory <br>to understand unity. <br>You don't need to hold a mirror up<br>to your face<br>to see your own reflection <br>when you can see yourself in everything. <br>What does space look like to space? <br>Mind to mind? <br>Light to light? <br>The dreamer to the dream? <br>What could God possibly say to herself <br>that she didn't already know? <br>There's nothing hidden. <br>There's nothing secret. <br>There's nothing that escapes detection. <br>There's no simulacrum for the void <br>that elaborates everyone's likeness. <br>There's no dead metaphor in the word <br>waiting to be resurrected. <br>The absolutes may be in denial <br>about the way things seem<br>but even when their eyes <br>burn through glass like stars<br>lost in their own immensities<br>they can't impress the darkness <br>with a theory of cosmic shadows.<br>They don't need to look <br>any further into space <br>than the ends of their noses<br>to see the constellations<br>casting them <br>across the universe <br>like the shadows of the stars<br>that aren't there anymore<br>trying to throw a light on black matter<br>by noting its absence. <br>Gravitational eyes devoid of light. <br>Black holes without keys <br>in the doors of perception. <br>Dry wishing wells on the moon<br>that have never plumbed the depths<br>of their bottomless longing<br>to hear something irrevocably truer <br>than the echoes of their own voices <br>coming back to them <br>like crows and doves to an ark. <br>By the time you know it<br>any event is over. <br>By the time you see the dawn <br>the sun has already set. <br>In the seed of every insight <br>you can read your own gravestone. <br>You can see there's as much death in it <br>as there is life. <br>You can feel the spring coming on <br>as if you were already buried<br>under the savage tiger-lilies.<br>And you can ask<br>until you're as blue in the face as a hyacinth <br>what it all meant <br>after you're dead<br>out in the incredible open <br>that's closed to the living <br>just past the end of their fingertips.<br>Or if it ever meant anything at all.<br>You can see and be it this way. <br>You can go on a long journey <br>to a prison or a shrine or a hospital <br>and return home <br>with no more insight <br>than you had when you left. <br>And still wonder if it was all worth it. <br>Because no experience of life <br>is truer than another <br>reality is not separated <br>from our awareness of it<br>nor subject to reform. <br>There is no norm <br>that isn't a prevailing illusion by consensus. <br>But the desert isn't looking for water <br>and only the one-eyed fools<br>mistake their eye-patchs <br>for an eclipse of the moon <br>and their own mirages<br>for a new way of thinking<br>when it's thinking's best virtue not to have one. <br>People and things are ok as they are <br>but they don't realize it.<br>They keep trying to live up <br>to their own reflections. <br>They keep trying to sweep <br>the stars and the deserts <br>off their front stairs<br>looking for a stairway to heaven <br>where the dust of the world <br>can't find a place to rest. <br>But time is a pulse of the heart <br>not the heavy pendulum <br>of a grandfather clock<br>and as Pablo Neruda once wisely said <br>the poetry is under your fingernails <br>and I would less wisely add<br>as is heaven. <br>No one's on the wrong path<br>once they open both their eyes<br>to what's underfoot<br>whether you're walking <br>on water stars or fireflies<br>or riding dolphins. <br>Whether your road <br>is a shoelace or smoke<br>or the lifeline of an umbilical cord <br>measured in wavelengths and lightyears <br>or your journey's still <br>an astronaut in the womb.<br>Mirrors holding mirrors up <br>to judgement for their spots. <br>Narcissus doesn't like what he's looking at. <br>So what? <br>The roads don't suddenly <br>turn back on themselves <br>because they lack floors <br>and a place of their own. <br>Heaven uses the same return address as hell.<br>But when death comes knocking in Aleppo <br>and you're out walking your own mile <br>in your own shoes<br>to nowhere in particular<br>free of arrivals and departures<br>no one's ever home<br>and every threshold you cross <br>is not hindered by an exit or an entrance.<br>Some walk.<br>Some run. <br>Some swim. <br>Some fly.<br>Some crawl. <br>Some ride. <br>Some dance. <br>And some sit still by the window <br>growing younger by the moment <br>the longer they look into the distance.</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=476987" data-title="Trying To Express de Patrick White" data-description="Trying to express a more immediate intimacy 
with the life of the mind
without attributing a form to madness
might just be another way 
of looking for comic relief 
from the actual facts 
of the tragic folly that confronts us 
like a world that wo..."></div>
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