Sunday, September 23, 2007
What I am writing is a confession. I saw those vistas with the wilful eye of protracted Innocence. Winnie the Pooh was closer to my heart than Christabel, and to say so is to confess myself not a child but a divided man who has trifled with visions of degredation and visions of exaltation without admitting either to the center of my heart. So I suppose now that center to be not known, and I flounder as I floundered thirty years ago, in shy love of a country innocent and personal as a piece of bread in my mouth, and like it silent, comforting, warm, and selfish.
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A bit of "The Heavenly Country," by Robert Kelly.
* * *
My son is teaching me the art of slowing down. Just yesterday morning, he walked into the spare bedroom in my parents' house where we were bunking. He crawl-climbed into bed with us. The windows were open and the birds were whipping up a good scraw. He laid there on his back and simply said, "birr," "birr," each time they made a noise. This has, of course, nothing to do with my post. But in the nothing it sketches the everything. I have said too much. But then again, I am not as young as I will be. And there, too much again. And again. Ad infinitum. And again. Again.
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