Monday, December 12, 2011

lighter than a feather

As philosophers and other technicians of the intellect seldom do, so I imagine athletes and warriors and artists do... i.e. come to a place in their activities where is no room for anything but this.

It's nothing sexy or profound. It's just that anything beyond this moment or this action gets in the way and makes life heavier and more obstructive than it needs to be. I cannot afford to run and be 'I.' I can no longer fight and be freighted down by the superfluousness of belief or hope. I cannot paint and worry or criticize. In this moment, everything is gone or I damn well wish it were ... who needs that superfluous, cling-y, adhesive rubbish?

Here is the place where, as always, your life is on the line and where life stares you in the eye, giggling with a good-natured derisiveness, "What life?!"

There is this and this alone. There is nothing desperate or delighted in it. There is this this-ing, inescapable and absolutely apt. And it is light.

As light as things really are.

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