Tuesday, May 31, 2016

Simone Weil 34

The state of conformity is an imitation of grace. If wind comes from “uneven heating of the earth,” it doesn't conform to this morning's rain, palms' slight movement more an ache than an action. Nothing is more difficult than doing the same. It takes a cordon to raise an ethical village. They take the must off of must, the hood out of should. There's no fan above the stove, just the sweet vog of knowing right. Let speech fall trippingly from your tongue, but make certain it doesn't trip on words oozing like over-ripe guava. Such a slight shift from we-speak-for to we-speak-as, from your hurt to our malaise. It's liberation oligarchy, this imposition of standards on the rest of us, our feet in the mud. In the story, a man who worked in a windowed basement fell in love with two feet that walked at his eyes' level. He could tell these feet by the arc of bone on one big toe. When he grew rich and found the walker of these feet, she proved to be a prostitute. Oh good reader, he married her!

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