It's been such a long time since I've written anything. That phrase ought never to be used in the first line of a composition -- as a matter both of ethics and of style. But if I'm to begin again at all, I have to begin with the first thought that strikes me, and given what I am beginning, the first thought that strikes me is that. I am clearing my throat before I speak or testing out my voice. It was much the same thing to say to myself again and again "Hello" when I was young -- just to assure myself that I could speak. It is honesty, anyway, and it is a true record. But wouldn't it be odd to come across the memorial of a man, each of whose entries began, "It has been such a long time since I have remembered...?" This is meditation in the way that I know it -- repeatedly catching oneself. This awareness comes and goes in waves -- in waves, perhaps, it builds into something deeper. Or else it just subsides and reappears. But that is the true record -- after all, real consciousness subsides and reappears, before finally disappearing completely. Think of a man sitting in a room repeating to himself over and over again that word "hello." There is a futility and inanity to it, certainly, but in that there can momentarily be an intention behind it, it is not without significance. Simply that the monument exists proves there was a spark, and though its merely existing may prove the monument was nothing monumental, still to witness that such things as monuments are possible can at least be said to go a way towards our aim. What better witness than the monument itself? "It's been such a long time since I've written anything."
Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down of his soft breast uncurls his coral feet. Creature of the sea, made from the deep, Not its darkness where the hundred monsters Sleep but from a deeper still, where pearls And other jewels their corazón await, A depth so clear, so still, Deeper than the deep, about its treasures Clinging like a sheet, edge upon the edge Of what is seen, a flicker and a sweep. This way to emerge! Royally too evident become And darker darkness radiate, to sweep and fly, Ever in the way things underneath Have shown themselves And wear the world as a wreath, Oblivious to any demand, "Why?" Through the deep purple of the dying heat of sun and mist, the level ray of sun-beam has caressed the lily with dark breast, and flecked with richer gold its golden crest. Gold on gold more gilded, on the other hand, recedes Into a darkness and stillness, leads The mi...
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