In Which Dante Is Infringed Upon
08/08/06 7:05 AM – 7:31 AM
When in the foggy dewed seat of the bench, you look up and see green hills surrounding, and then you remember the better place. Is this a wrong thing? To say better is to say desire, to say desire is to say suffering. But there we are again, back home amongst the sheltering hills.
Forgetting those things which have passed, we press on to those things which are here. Then this too will pass and we are arriving each moment on a new shore. We see in it the imminent realization of that which is beyond change, but we cannot come to realization, the days change to slowly and pass to quickly. We are what we are when we wake up. We will never again be what we were just seconds ago. So we let go of the rope and hold onto the vague hope of Providence, finding that the only change was in the forgetting.
The only difference between Hell and Purgatory was hope. The same brave punishments were fashioned for sinners of the same ilk, but one was to endlessness, the other towards change. Ascending the celestial ladder, passing by the baser planets, we apprehend the smile of the beloved in the stellar flower. But it’s all just a poem, reflecting nothing of reality other than the imagination of a man. This too we see in the skyscrapers and artesian breads. You cannot go home again, it’s been overrun with those that did not change while you were away. And there is the drawing and there the map of the world. Through the windows of the house next door, you look into the shadowed room and see a reflection of your hearts contemplation. Monsters? Lovemaking? Nothing? We are what we were then. We are what we are now. We are what we will be. But we change with the atomic dissipation as everything else does. Whence comes consciousness and whither does it go? We are bound here, and yet freer than the angelic. When I swung the golf club, I became something else, because, on occasion, I chanced to swing well. The beer and the pizza remind us of right this very second. Come now, sweet girl, and sit beside me and read. All men die alone, but we can live in company, if only we discover how to hear the farmer say, “that’ll do, Pig, that’ll do.”
When in the foggy dewed seat of the bench, you look up and see green hills surrounding, and then you remember the better place. Is this a wrong thing? To say better is to say desire, to say desire is to say suffering. But there we are again, back home amongst the sheltering hills.
Forgetting those things which have passed, we press on to those things which are here. Then this too will pass and we are arriving each moment on a new shore. We see in it the imminent realization of that which is beyond change, but we cannot come to realization, the days change to slowly and pass to quickly. We are what we are when we wake up. We will never again be what we were just seconds ago. So we let go of the rope and hold onto the vague hope of Providence, finding that the only change was in the forgetting.
The only difference between Hell and Purgatory was hope. The same brave punishments were fashioned for sinners of the same ilk, but one was to endlessness, the other towards change. Ascending the celestial ladder, passing by the baser planets, we apprehend the smile of the beloved in the stellar flower. But it’s all just a poem, reflecting nothing of reality other than the imagination of a man. This too we see in the skyscrapers and artesian breads. You cannot go home again, it’s been overrun with those that did not change while you were away. And there is the drawing and there the map of the world. Through the windows of the house next door, you look into the shadowed room and see a reflection of your hearts contemplation. Monsters? Lovemaking? Nothing? We are what we were then. We are what we are now. We are what we will be. But we change with the atomic dissipation as everything else does. Whence comes consciousness and whither does it go? We are bound here, and yet freer than the angelic. When I swung the golf club, I became something else, because, on occasion, I chanced to swing well. The beer and the pizza remind us of right this very second. Come now, sweet girl, and sit beside me and read. All men die alone, but we can live in company, if only we discover how to hear the farmer say, “that’ll do, Pig, that’ll do.”
posted by Spike at 4:39 AM
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