George Harrison spent his whole life preparing to leave his body. In the documentary about him, his wife said the room filled with light when he died. She said, let’s put it this way, if you were filming it, you wouldn’t have needed to light that room.
In a magazine I was reading on the airplane to New Orleans, it suggested the image we see in front of us is what the object looked like when it emitted that light. This was an article about the planets and our life here on earth. It said we only see stars as they once were, not as they are when we view them.
I’ve been considering how much truth is in me—how much I can make possible for another person and how much I will obscure. A lot of what I think about is how to make everything something else, which could be a problem if my job becomes to show someone how to be in the world. I can guarantee almost nothing, except how the ocean feels when it moves me.
George Harrison mortgaged his house for 4 million dollars to front the money for the film Life of Brian, all because he wanted to see it. The people in the documentary reference his sense of humor—one person told a story about how when lunatics attacked George in his house and he was being stretchered out, he passed two new employees and said to them, How do you like the job so far?
A lot of what’s in us isn’t available to us—we don’t know what can come from it. It arrests us at times, when our emotions take place, settling us in. I try to imagine everything inside of me at once being the same, and at once being different.
I want to be as spiritual as George Harrison and have his gardens. The last thing he said to Ringo Star was Want me to go with you? He said this because when he was dying in Switzerland, Ringo visited him there, but had to leave quickly because his own daughter was in a hospital in New York with a brain tumor. George wanted to know if Ringo wanted him to come along. That was the last conversation they had.
from the many purposes slowly uncovered for what is here, in form, to resemble what isn’t
(and for what isn’t to resemble what is)
(and for one to know the difference)
(and to create enough distance between them so one can)
(and to provide one with enough evidence to ascertain that difference)
(and to not be amidst so much possibility that any assessment would be discredited)
(and to chart one’s assessments fairly)
(and to be uncertain in the results of one’s assessments)
(and to present these assessments in a judicious manner)
(and to examine the presentation in a way that privileges belief)
(and to remain certain after)
(and to create actions that resemble that certainty)
(and to have actions be the primary substance of that certainty)
(and to track one’s mind through said actions)
(and to believe the correlation between one’s actions and one’s mind beyond any reasonable doubt)
(and to repeat this process for each thought, and therefore each ascribed action)
(and to make only small errors)
(and to pass through those errors meaningfully)
(and to let meaning be determined from here on as thus)
to come through something holy and make certain that holiness is accounted for in the collections of what is holy inside you and to consider how much of that is available to having a relationship with what isn’t
(to examine what serves as witness)
(to explain the examination and monitor the response to the explanation closely, paying attention to each movement toward acceptance and dismissal)
(to be in praise of each acceptance)
(to offer evidence in defense of each dismissal)
to go after what is most uncertain, and while in procession to attend to each relationship to that thing that arises
(to, as certainty arises, treat it as uncertainty)
(to continue in uncertainty even as more information arises)
(to think of possibility as an expression of uncertainty)
(to be romantic in your investigations)
(to keep in the world as one does when one is trying hard to figure something out even as the desired result is to allow the thing to remain unfixed)
to be in contact with that which exists between internal content and external resemblances
(to track points of contact in the landscape)
(to be exact in one’s manner of indication)
(to record the information in one’s mind)
(to reproduce what resembles the feeling of the information through one’s emotions)
(to make indefinite each expression of information)
(to locate each example of uncertainty and in that location to pause)
(to examine the location of each point of uncertainty in relation to each point that it touches)
(to know uncertainty in a manner of location)
(to know one’s temperament in relation to each location)
(to have an ability of discernment)
(to continue through space in examination)
(to continue in examination as process)
(to have wild estimations of not only what, in its location of being examined, is, but what isn’t)
(to deny what isn’t only by ascertaining that it isn’t)
(to be fixed and continuous)
This morning I held the ocean in my mind in so much belief that I felt what was most inside me touch what was most inside it. I stayed that way for an hour.
Next to the water there is a valley of grain and next to the valley of grain there is water, which, from the air, looks like more grain. Some of the people don’t care that there is a difference between the water and the valley of grain and insist that it is either all water or all a valley of grain. They say that it is only through location that what happens takes place.
There is a word that means going from or coming into sight. It refers to what a linguist calls experiential liminality: the act of just entering or leaving perception, that is, a being on the boundaries of experience. This word is more about the act of coming or going than it is about the object that comes and goes.
One thing that I’ve seen is a flood close up. It was in Oklahoma. There were cars floating outside of the motel and people in business suits swimming through the parking lot. Another time, in Missouri, I got the stars and lighting bugs confused because they were both being reflected in the still, dark river on a night with no moon. I sat on the bank without any clothes on, drinking homemade wine, not being able to tell the difference between the river and the sky, and floating in the middle somewhere in a wild dark.
At night we can hear what’s in us over water—the long bridge of lights broadened by what moves under it.
Moon, say the astronauts in their black ships.
In Oklahoma, you slept in blue sheets with the moon printed on them, holding something the weight of rain inside you, like wild fame—to know what opens, opens to light—the state of the world fixed.
The places in us, indistinguishable from what is here, in the world, —how we become constant from this, in spite of ourselves, our efforts to be singular.
In fall my mind is full of deserts—they move through me like empty battlefields. I can feel other places happen in me, too: rainy, Midwest Halloweens and the hot springs when early cold falls gently on the mountains. Every day the things I don’t know become greater than the things I do and I try to use the places inside me to understand more about how fixed we can be and how the earth only holds us for a time.
There are places in me from many lifetimes ago: saloons and badlands, Alaskan snows, and empty Midwestern fields. It feels more and more important to communicate with them—to understand something, and because there is life inside me, the ear bones growing, I want to be able to tell her these things.
There is a field. At night it fills with rivers. In the rivers swim wild salmon. They imagine a world of other fish headed south, in the endless tracks of what has come before. As I’m going to sleep, I think about the field that fills with rivers and salmon, and the loneliness of their preoccupations and I think of the far off sounds of other fish and the years that have built up, and the lost mammals, and how each place survives and how we continue to hold each place inside us and how each place continues, gigantically, to hold us.