I went to the Amazon when I was thirteen. I felt a snake glide over my bare foot in the middle of the night, but it didn't frighten me till years later. Not till I became aware of mortality, and that a snake might be one of the multitude of ways to confront it.
They say blindness is an ignorance is a bliss. An obliteration of extraneous information hopefully left with a terrifyingly noble focus of the mind. Homer is said to have been blind. That is if he ever actually existed-- in which case blindness would be a fact for fiction to add weight to accomplishment. Milton wrote Paradise Lost as a blind man. Joyce went blind writing Finnegan's Wake. Galileo went blind. Monet went blind. And so it goes within mythology, a woman is a witch.
I find myself, now, living within a slow dissolve that I think about all the time and, luckily, sometimes not at all. The idea of permanence is dusty and mostly useless.
When I make a little more money, I would like to get some really nice really soft sheets. I hear Elizabeth Taylor say 'sheets' and that's exactly how I want them to feel. I would like to dress monochromatically for 'safe' and 'cool' purposes. Gravity suddenly feels incredibly crucial to understanding where I am. Agnes Martin is not the same painter she used to be. It is mostly a white square in direct sunlight or a shadow within a shadow. Which may as well be anything/nothing. Or more poetically, a variation of her original intention. Things mutate from a shape to a fragmented shape, to a color, to a lighter color, to static, to a sound. The same thing can be a million things and suddenly memories are necessary to remember what I once knew. But, lest I forget, memories mutate, too. There comes a point for grieving everything I know for what I knew it as before.
I can't see stars anymore. I know when it is night. You can describe them to me. I can watch them in a video.
Now my dreams are so ridiculously, vividly beautiful that I am distracted from their plotlines.
...
But then I think of love and being in love and I feel temporarily debilitated by the thought without--
seeing is potentially the verb my future cannot reckon with. But then how else do I do it?
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and then, too, Borges wrote a haiku: