Between Ended and Forgone
Wherein love fails to tend...
Between Ended and Forgone
📙 The End of Trust - McSweeney's #54
Where Does It Go
Be the air. Compose my most-difficult periods a moment. Crawl. Over them, into me.
Where Did You Go
I didn't pad that. Read over the words again maybe - over the questions, they're at the end. Hold together. Hard period, severe swerve, self-made terrain known well-enough to walk away, to leave Big Project mountain, to walk that in sections.
Rivers flowing to a pole lose warmth - others (to an equator) grow warmer over the travel. Some travel toward the pole only to curl back around, and go toward the warmth. This my kind of river, maybe. One traveling this way a time and turns not around so much as over and out, in a swing.
photon whizzing by like train headlamp
Imagine the river that turns around negotiating that curl - ocean wave in perpetual suspension. Fish know the waters, keep upstream. Listen, with your fish, your resolve in one state at that curl, in another through it. As a fish, you do that trip once.
Where Did I Go
I leave that river. It's a visit some years back. I set blood ties up with this pair of hands, that they may downscale gracefully as CoV-2 decimates their number. I work. I leave. Finding a place I'm not wished dead (in place of good day) at the grocer. I look at pictures from the wake. The flowers mine to stand by.
Careless, for me to go back. Careless to buy a transport, ride it from one ocean to the other. This sand. This sand. Same breath.
What is wrong with me?
But, this doesn't start with me. Seasons don't exist without something striking the earth into a tilted axis. Seasons are immigrants. Cold. Wet. Dry. Fall were done to Earth. What untroubled care does to you. Suspension-spilling, Moon, oceans basalt so world there's cling in it. Forgetting excited.
Love sees to you. What's always here only gets so far. Love invites no seasons. Love offers no Moon. Love will never leave the ocean. Love has no end.
Where Did Love Go
I love this spit. I love this bottle. I love this instrument. I love family finding me. I love water. I love the night. What I erode away, saying love so many times, is not what I mean when I say love.
It's what you can see, that I erode away. Water through me this moment belongs to a people who don't have a word for love (that is): their word for love is sharpened only once. And does not survive more than a few uses per lifetime.
A word perhaps translating to "I decay" or whatever tilts worlds, inhales ocean, and releases Moon in universal punctuation all in the same breath.
This sa[ ]d. This s[ ]nd.
My preteens, I share magnitudes of years I have in love for certain things. Love ends (for me). Meaning is rarely asked to step out of love - a kid doing this makes no sense. Love. Go, serve love. Only: love won't fit me.
Small, my notifications on vibrate, my street one-ways into freeway, I'm love's blind spot, the small crash between bed and wall during full-body laugh love goes "what was that?" to, between giggles.
I'm the list this moment calls for weather tears from hands. I am stars so close to the nose during stargazing, the brain filters them out along with the nose; billions of years at light speed, registered utterly uninformative.
Face it, love, you end with me.
And I'm Still Here
Has air ever crawled into you?
Can air ever repay you?
Does an adequate response exist?
Why might an equal gesture be impossible?
What about you did that whole breath just fail?
Why might air never notice you?
Have you ever let anything be asymmetrical?
What happens if I never fret?
Can you be small in something generous?
📙 https://www.eff.org/the-end-of-trust↩