Friday, April 15, 2016

Simone Weil 4

Love is not consolation; it is light. Neither is quite noun, or verb. Noun, Verb, and Period sat in a bus headed for Nanakuli. Noun was such a dull one that Verb fell asleep, missing his stop. The bus driver wasn't inclined to stop where there was no sign, but Period pulled her authority card and put an end to that. Consolation is a lightening, but not yet light. The green flash happens in the morning, too, when sun edges through a hole in the Pacific. Light can be abject, like a comma, or it can be voice, lifting comma like an early moon. My son's eyebrow covers his eyelid like thatch. His eye inhabits the photograph but what it sees is not I nor you nor any thing, but something past the provenance of the lens. We can see an eye, but not its seeing. We can see through light, but we can't see it. Pronoun, only slightly more scintillating than Noun, missed the bus all together. She rests in the empty space of a semi-colon's rustled bed sheets, shifting her gender. My former student is now a “he,” and that sheds some light on who she seemed to me. It is only if the light is empty that it works. 

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