Four voices

from our November day of writing

“There were times when he took in the ocher of the huts, the odor of the goats, the choruses of children’s voices, the winding paths that led to evergreen forests, the piercing chants of the women, the blue quiver of the heavens, and the deep-throated songs of men gathered at dusk. Times when he would be struck by the sudden magenta cry of the women of the golden shrines, the moon white as the most perfect gap that leads to other worlds, the lonely call of the hunter in the hills, and the flight of the blue-headed sharp-eyed long-flying birds that precipitate auguries when they circle the palace three times before shooting upward into the silvery palm-wine colored sky.” —Ben Okri, The Last Gift of the Master Artists.

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Four Voices, November 11

1.

I am not married to this simple sentence.
You might think this is nonsense. It’s true. It is.
Because marriage is an abode, and there is no abode to abide in. Abodes are based on senses, and our senses are what create things, all things, all experiences.
So, to be not married, is to not abide. What I have said is true.
I do not abide in this simple sentence. The sentence is created by senses. Any sense of I is created by senses. I do not abide, and there is no simple sentence to abide in or with to be married.
This is nonsense I’m talking about here!
Imagining an orb that gathers back all my parceled, exhausted energy from others, to replenish all the me that has arisen from sense dusts is not nonsense.
The wars and power dynamics are not nonsense. The tender green kale is not nonsense. The angry, screaming woman is not nonsense. I is not nonsense.
Let us cultivate nonsense by doing nothing, being nothing, meeting nothing, seeing and hearing nothing. Oh! Was that something? Not nonsense. Us is nothing in all its calamity. I am not married to us. I am not married to me. I’m not married to the cushion. I am not married to training certificates or the respect I deserve. I am not married to rent and taxes. I am not married to integrity. I am not married to my morning tea.
The cross, the intersection, is even a marriage. None of this is nonsense, but let us still try to cultivate it.

2.

It might be dangerous to step into the darkness.
The footfalls landing on surfaces unseen.
The chance for all manner of unknown to be underfoot.
The chorus of thoughts that can burden the place where they are birthed.

It might be dangerous to stay in the confines of the lighted path.
Its contours predictable. Safe. Secure. Fatiguing.
The known route of travel, well-worn by convention.

It might be dangerous to speak the truth.
Not knowing how it lands. 
Not knowing how it's ripples can disturb the pool,
as its rings cast outward.

It might be dangerous to stay silent.
To accept what feels false for a sense of security in that moment.
Is that moment secure?

It might be dangerous to let people go distant.
To see their backs go further afield.
As sense of longing to be in their stride
A sense of knowing that you can't.

It might be dangerous to follow forever.
Trusting others' truths to be your own.
Trusting their vision and footfalls to be surer than yours.

It might be dangerous to move. It might be dangerous to stay still.

3.

This morning I woke up, and all of last night’s emotions had changed. Nine hours of slow, deep breathing had stoked the fire in which all things are changed. I had changed. You had changed. The young rye in the garden beds had changed. Nothing is as it was when I was last awake to it. In this new world, I rolled to face your back and put my arm across your belly.

This morning I woke up, and all of last night’s emotions have changed. Those emotions, along with the words we used to speak them, were my last memories. But what are these? My night was full of dreams and I thought only of you in a transformed world. I had left you in this bed and traveled to places I could only dream of. When I woke, I was coming home from great distances and times. Last night’s fury and terror is this morning’s past. A memory only, and as a memory it joins all of our others, wrapped in the great cloth of our love.

This morning I woke up, and all of last night’s emotions had changed. Peace had entered this abode while I slept heavy and tired. Under the darkness of night, peace had broken windows, shattered pictures, overturned tables and set the rafters ablaze. Now I wake to find the structure I built and holed myself in has fallen to that invasion. I now have nothing left to hide in, nothing left to hide.

4.

I have to respond to the needs of the cat. He’s at my feet, my knees, he’s looking at me demanding something. 
I have to respond to the needs of my knees, so fragile and stiff and old, so wanting of care, so refusing to be cared for. 
I have to respond to the needs of what, of whom, of why, of when. 
I have to respond and I am not here to respond, to hear, I am not here. 
I have to respond to the needs, to the knees, to the cat, to the crisis in Gaza, to the killing, to the world, so far away and still right here. 
I have to respond to this life, its terror and rigor, its boats and notches and swords, its rivers. 
I have to respond to the world we’ve made that made us. 
I have to respond again and again to the cat right here in front of me, hungry for food or attention or water, purring and baring his claws. 
I have to respond—what again?—a little more, I can’t go on and I will, I do. 
I have to respond to end, to bring it to an end, without ending, without saying goodbye.

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Writing As A Wisdom Project meets roughly quarterly in the Greenfield neighborhood of Pittsburgh. Our next gathering will be on February 3, 2024. Subscribe below to receive future announcements.

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