“It is already late when you wake up inside a question” -Anne Carson-
It takes some prodding. Prodding and probing. You must have set out, been triggered or poked or otherwise disturbed. In the first place: to ask.
So something, anything, disturbs you. Annoys, feels good, causes you to move out of a way, or adjust. Friction. Something like pain or a sharp thrill, label it fear, designate desire. In any case – unrest, discomfort, necessity.
There’s the rub. A displacement of sorts, like an involuntary glance, or tripping on sidewalks. Awareness. I have legs. Eyes. An elbow. Breath. A need for a restroom, that kind of thing. Self/other; here/there; now/now. Force, motion, mass enter the vicinity. You become aware.
To right yourself, “get your bearings,” “take stock” and what-not usually begins in some knee-jerk instinctual mannered-reaction, as it were. Pierce-poke – wince and recoil. Delight – magnetism and submission. You are not awake, only slightly coming-to. Displaced, disturbed, floundering for shore.
An experience is occurring and senses churn, mind starts mapping, here and now are tired of hiding – regardless of the fun of the game. You startle and seek, calling things names deep in your head, listening for echoes that mate. Radar of accounting and imagination, disjunctively it gradually becomes “all systems go.”
And how do these systems “go”?
Who is it that’s waking?
The entire propensity expanding the proverbial “What the – ?!”
Whether infant or sage, and all of us, after all, somewhere in between.
And so it goes, ever waking in questions…
(What could be more exciting?
More repetitively strange?)