I don’t want to be in cyber-activist mode all the time, responding here or on Facebook to each new report of another atrocity here, another atrocity there, rebuffing false historical claims by apologists for oppressive regimes, supporting the struggles of the oppressed, collating & disseminating the stories of the expelled, dispossessed, marginalized, etc , etc, all of which I do when I do it because of my feelings for & with them, but I can’t & don’t want that to be the focus of my “spare” time, the time I have left, each day of the days I have left, between things I need to do for my & our physical & economic etc maintenance & the time I spend with family &/or friends &/or on a nightly episode or two of a good tv series… I want some of that for this, just blogging, & some of it for just being, being with, whatever I’m with at that moment, something like what I found this morning on pages 14–15 of the 1976 Folio 1 I started copying from yesterday.
He sat cross-legged by the lake, gazing at the gently moving ceaselessly reflecting surface. The joint, rolled in the lavatory at the printing works before the lunchbreak, and smoked while driving thru Albert Park to the lakeside, was working on him already, opening him to seeing and hearing and sensing what had always been there to be seen and heard and sensed though he’d been to closed off in thought to notice. It was all so – beautiful, no other word would serve, and beautiful in no abstract sense; it was like, no, not like, it was, being in love, though this was crazy, to love the face (as it were) of the earth, of its seemingly unbounded body beautiful with all its febrile strands and tendrils in motion, fine-pointed blades of grass bursting from small stems, patterns of stones down to the rippling water reflecting blue, the sky not a dome of empty air but a fullness of patterned motion, watching all this seated here in love with the beauty, a plenitude that asked nothing and in this too was a secret of its love-inspiring power.
This was the third time he had turned on, the third time he had felt anything like this in his life. Not like any memory of childhood, either, but new – and yet, real, right, realer and righter (he KNEW) than anything he’d known. The first time, the effects had lasted all the way into the next day. After the evening, at home… he had taken the next day off, and gone to the Alexandra Gardens, mostly to lie on the grass & gaze & absorb in always new wonder & love every detail of everything that his attention turned to in the constantly changing sphere of all he could sense or perceive…
This, this kind of being contains everything else, he thought. Even if it’s not time-controlled. Here: imagine a writer trying to grasp it all. But a writer has to limit himself to one stream. Here: who will contain what? Will this kind of being contain that of the writer, or the other way around? Will I be doing it for what I can later report about it, my attitude that of an investigator, or will I go in all the way, not even for the sake of discoveries, but to be this way for the sake of being this way, because it’s the best way to be. with