another human says to me after a community
arts festival that ends in white-robed humans, in shadow play and the
translucent heads of mythic creatures, gliding, chanting, like humanoid and
earthbound clouds, among candles, on and at the base of hills, polyglottally,
through a lukewarm late summer evening of threatening rain – looked like a cult to me. i reply, as
pee-wee herman said, one person’s cult is another’s party.
that herman to my knowledge never said this
and if he did in contexts so far from mine that we could say he never or barely
did, if i assume at least temporarily my context as standard. that i can and do say to my knowledge. that i
never replied as such. that the other
human only approximated my above quotation of it. that the image(s) in your mind – if there be
image(s) – birthed from these words likely bear little resemblance to what i
saw, and these words to other words that might have been birthed from the
presumed and ostensibly indisputable actual event, hardly proves but equally
hardly dispels the spinning, expanding, morphing, collapsing limits and
boundlessnesses of what we learn, and how, and what we don’t.
i am interested in the supposedly existing
thoughts of chuang tzu, wittgenstein, kant, hume, foucault, artaud, kristeva, the
boys, the non-boys, the non-girls, the girls, and as is well known in
non-existent circles, the non-humans (which some have argued include the
humans). but no more interested than in
the voices at my co-op’s picnic table, the pebbles in the tiny teeny bitty itty
zen garden before me in this café, the repetitive semi-articulations of that
lover, or the molasses of the morasses of the marsh mists of the appearances of
my mind.
in the paragraph above that begins with another human is all knowledge, all
knowledge’s deconstruction, the materiality and immateriality of all things.
in the paragraph above is just another pebble
in this zen garden stretching before this and that i to the stars, unseen monks raking, unseen monks constellating,
unseen monks whispering, of the infinite love of each pebble, of the sum of all
infinities becoming nothing in that way nothing is become.
in the paragraph above i see a ghost of a
girl tumbling down staircases of burning manure, men of ostensible maturity and
power blanching to fear, for they are seeing saint bernards too large to be
saint bernards. and i want to say – some
of me wants to say – i am the girl. but i cannot.
i cannot for reasons too complex and beautiful and stupid to name. the reasons are too long. reasons are always too long.
in the paragraph above is the paragraph below
and if you don’t see that you’re dumber than a geriatric cat and i strip you of
the name human and turn you into a
pebble and you are thereby sanctified in the garden of silences. these are the paths of knowledge and the
signs of the immaterial orders of freedom.
