The essence of a poem is that it's boiled down to its own essence. But this is prose, and it's quick. I'm wanting not to overthink it. The fingers need to fly. There's far too much here to find any sort of essence. The changes are swift, as if I am caught in a fast moving River.
And slow, deep... wide. I grow impatient with my impatience. I notice it. What else can I do? I so want to push off, move on, get on with it....
But what?! Here I am. This Is It.
This is a story far too slow, swift, wide, and deep to post as a "blog post". I'm searching for its essence, but I only want to say, instead, that I'm thinking again of David -- Yes, the guy who pulled the disappearing act. I've been remembering his touches, his kisses.... His disappearance.
My disappearing act is different, I tell myself. Here I am, pushing the River, wanting and wishing, needing and ... I think I'll sit in meditation, take a hot bath.... Anything to avoid
... What? .... This gnawing dukkha. "Unsatisfactoriness" (and would you believe I'm uncertain about its spelling?
Habits. Rivers cut deep canyons in the Earth. They don't change swiftly. They rush on swiftly.
I miss him. I do.
Last edited by River; 02-27-2011 at 11:47 PM.