We come to the morning forest among the spots of lights and the
shadows;
among the fronds and its shades, there is a mobile stillness
and we hold with both arms our freezing knees
Only
in this way, it can it be a place to be.
This transient clarity in the thickness of the dark forest,
this greener sea subject to the wind formations, this drainage toward the clouds,
this coldness landscape, attached to the passage of the sun
──and to the passage of others "those thoughts" like feathers, croaks and croaks ──
This is our place of birth.
You also heard a blink. Did you hear it; did you see it?
Early camping magic, lighting tiny fires for the interstice,
but only minimum fires among what was seen and what is seen again
──it's a blink of your tear drops in the wind ── .
"Newly dressed", and you feel just fine; yet another and the same.
What has changed then?
All has changed.
All has changed among the one who sees and the other ── that oneself who watches the things seen.
A flicker; the deed, the interval in which everything has changed,
presents a performance without a program.
That was the weather before.
This is the growth. Then occurs the crack in the sequence of thoughts.
Then moves again the tree that sings and dances, rocking its fronds until the afternoon light.
Then a lonely bee will end its search, buzzing,
it will enter the conference room.
That is when the thing and the "do" will smile to the one who is appearing.
It all comes from a precise interruption of thoughts.
We cannot recall which thought, precisely, but so that it brings us, already, to silence.
Astonishment. And that moving shadow in the extreme cold wind seems to be the only hook left.
But
before the fortune sticks are moved, we already suspect that the first
step - and those who follow, perhaps - would have to be done barefoot,
again.
For
example: the feeling of being ── that, perhaps, only conjugates in
plurals and gerunds and that in itself it is an abyss (s) ──
magnetically suspended by the cardinal sins ── a downfall that drives you to the
bottom of the oceans.
That is the walk in the waking dream, in the senseless, meaningless, itself.
What is left then? A bare suspension ── with no veils, alétheia──, an uncoated search.
Are you wondering if that is possible?
I
already asked myself: is that a first image from some knowledge? A
first silence from some astonishment? Is it a first step to the undone?
*There is a clearing in the forest ──a lichtung──.
There is a light and a place.
This landscape is set in by a dream, as it goes on.
The master shows up in a green coat, handing his album speaks out.
"We have already developed all kinds of advanced studies".
but of what, exactly? Advanced studies on what?
Master? And he walks away laughing;
his spoken thoughts can be seen as whirling objects on his hands.
Before there was no foundation, nothing; only those hands and our feet to walk.
Since then we call this building up, toughen up.
Oh yes, why not? But only in a random, a provisional, a transitory way
──and the Chinese "bambooes" are then thrown out──:
the sticks form a subtle, irregular and beautiful equilibrium;
a play of instantaneous challenges, enigmas, and games.
As your hand goes over in the air
all those horses are running through the beach
and the fireworks open up over the black shadow on the sea;
but all that sound has stopped. They are picked up again,
and with a blow of hands they get thrown once more.
Yet something insisted, from inside: "what follows is the little day" ,
and I am not wondering why it did so.
This is a kind of tundra,
It's a plain without trees; a place with no trees of thought.
It is the outdoor. Where everything seems to be alive, and as we are listening and observe.
We listen and observe large oscillations of all kinds.
many short seasons,
where all is made from the remains of the previous life.
"Advanced" that was that word before. Perhaps only in the sense of large explorations
── especially irregular exploration──.
Detachment. Attainment.
This web, this tundra of thought, is also our nutrient,
this weather is also preparing the most imminent outcome.
This presentiment of something
This resentiment of everything ──form a whole──
That unthought, that which became immediate.
THE LINE
We have to leave that line behind.
The question is, where does it begin; where is it marked?
We must look around and feel how it feels: this is the weather.
That is to say, an exaltation that comes front,
a very happy heart movement of 180 ° and to days yet to come,
beating, for any ceiling to come.
Pretty soon after our children's age had ended
we
understood that ──as a buzz, as a transparent wind of light, as those
insects and their charming wings flight── we all come from there: the
outdoors of our thoughts.
Observe.
Just imagine calling it "the bad weather".
That weather which has educated us, "even what has taught us a good laugh".
That was our lonely star in the sky above.
Pretty soon we knew that at most we had a hut, only a small tent in the outdoors;
at most we had a few bonfires, here and there, in the sand.
Thus, we wonder why thinking of a "center", since there is no center?
