A Wounded Deer–/leaps highest/I’ve heard the Hunter tell
But who is the hunter and who is the tell? Or better yet, what is the tell?
one of the numerous artificial mounds
This is my second entry about the self. Or, it was originally meant to be. However, just typing/thinking that sentence feels incredibly so presumptuous. I feel [almost] silenced.
sometimes sepulchral, sometimes heaps of ruin
This is the fact, however: I do not mean to be presumptuous. I mean to express, (and here I nearly wrote tell), my own anxiety/confusion. Everything I write, everything I post on this blog, also has its truth for me in its opposite. When I write it, know I am also undercutting each word, I am marrying each word with its antonym.
Though I say/think I do not want ambiguity, that I want transparency, I seem to be constantly engaging ambiguity in order to find my way to a place where language no longer exists.
There was neither the realm of space nor the sky beyond
Of course, there is an army of people searching for that place beyond language. And the weight of life (that that has been, all that will be) exists outside of language, even after we try to trap it with our words. It slithers or flits or creeps away. Or simply grows out of our reach, toward the sun.
I ask you about the farthest end of the earth; I ask you about the navel of the universe
But I digress. It was not my intent to wander about the corridors of language.
I ask you about the final abode of Speech
it just happened.
Originally, I planned this entry to be…
Originally, I planned this entry to be the second part of my investigation of why I couldn’t let the question of Everest, the self, and life/death go.
I do not know just what it is that I am like
But maybe I am done with that for now.
I wander about concealed and wrapped in thought.
I don’t mean to go on and on and to be so argumentative and angry.
I won a share of this Speech
It’s been a rough summer and I still feel off balance. Perhaps you will come and show me the path through thickets. Or perhaps I’ll find it myself, without the smoke and mirrors and the climbing equipment. Maybe if I’m just quiet for a moment, it will come to me.
the beautiful embryo of the waters
I call to /// for help
Quotes are from Dickinson, Ainsworth, the Rig Veda (Doniger trans.),