It might be Autumn. It takes awhile to know (here). In any case, the confusion is enormous, is bewildering, is sometimes stultifying.
Multiple persons – some who know me and some who seem like they do – all seem confident about it. About the book. About that “there is a book in me” just waiting to be born or written, composed or transcribed – however a “book” comes to be. I am certain of none of it, excepting that I love books, in fact I crave well-connected letters as much as (although differently from) my desire for love, for intimacy (or “satisfaction” – itself a kind of surprise and delighted exhaustion), for meaningful connections (being understood, acknowledged, beloved, and so on). Strange beasts, we. I. I-we.
The “I” is “we” if you take into account all the variance – the inconsistencies and variety and contextual divergences. “Bewildering” is the word I most usually apply to this business or blessing of living… of being alive.
Maybe that’s what this is about, like birthdays. The strange pivoting celebration of another year undergone or accomplished, simultaneous with its absence and cessation. Living, dying – same thing? The introduction that serves as farewell. A tightly romance.
Does “paradox” indicate two apparently incompatible things being the case at once? These are not flip-sides of a coin, but two things on the same surface, depending. Living/dying, suffering/joy, love. Now as before and after in the same instant, so to speak. I will always be battling the incapacity of words as the only things capable. Communicative paradox – language as, at once, in the same sphere/realm/scale/reality – that which reveals and conceals, says and does not say, speaks and remains silent, clarifies and obfuscates, signals and misleads…fails and succeeds.
So that every effort of greeting also grieves, and each introduction is yet another form of farewell.
I loved her.