Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Simone Weil 3

A time has to be gone through without any reward: reword this, repeat it, rehearse it, recap it, resurrect it, remonstrate with it, oh recidivist it! Do you think while you play soccer, I ask my daughter. Not about the cats, she says. Stein's gerunds are all doing, no dead space. A portrait that moves bears no images. He that is making has no face, even if what he makes is portrait. Go on vacation, but before you do, blank out her face. It will rise again later. There's an app that tells you the best sunsets on earth. But we're on the east side so all we see is the orange of its rising. The dead lemons come later. Take out the word “hard” before “stone.” Some conditions do repeat themselves, even if it's only history running its rails. Trade winds today, running east to west like the sun. Popularity is anachronism; judgment connotes the negative. The mountains are like waves, but fixed, except where clouds Isadora Duncan them. Too quick a start is deadly, too slow a one fails to unfold, like a mobile in a vacuum. Imagine if the Calder had babies, a friend said. When I meditate, I carry my black hand bags into space then drop them from my fingers like seeds. Today I floated in colorless air as they danced around me. When we touched, I opened each bag and pulled out its contents. I kissed them, opening my fingers wide.

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