Scurvicious

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It will take the time necessary for the taking.  There is no law.  There are no guidelines.  We have floundered in the absence of regulation.  We have gone adrift and been at sea.  We’ve been at see.

And none of that is working.  Check. Back to the drawing board.

Tonight: returning to the fraying edges of the undiscovered country, stepping bravely, brazenly, briskly off the compass rose and into the ocean that surrounds.  It is not a fight.  It is not a war.  It is not a struggle to lift the throat and force out the air.  It is all there ever is or was.  We just name it new.  We just brush the bones  away from the earth that envelops, that surrounds.

Here we are.  Frightened because fear has matched our steps, at peace because we do not walk alone.

The words can flower and flow at precisely the rate they are meant to.  There is no mad rush for clarity, there is no mind to reach, there is no comfort needed.  It is just the way the river goes.  We have been ill lately, drawing things tightly inside, pulling our blinders down and close to see only molecules about which we need feel nothing.  We have been sure, in emphatic tones, that the only safe way forward is to suffer.  If you suffer publicly, if you martyr on the torturous, splintered boards of time and service and bowed heads, then you cannot be caught surprised by a private suffering.  A private turmoil will feel like warm bathwater, a mother’s milk, a security that suffices after the nails pierce the bones.    We don’t want to do either.  We want our bones kept neither by earth, nor water, nor wooden rules and rulers crossed.  We want them in our bodies we want them to do the things that must be done there to make them worth of calcification, excavation, preservation.

It makes sense enough to us.  We’ve tried for a long time to play it otherwise and we’ve taken long orbits around enormous suns just to realize the same weathered message.  We’re here now.  We need it now.  We gather these rosebuds in their bloom and not in their decay.   We struggle the same way: absent of struggle, but we try and force it to take trouble’s shape.

Just climb into this bed.  Just let me kiss the crown of dark hair, the fount of silverquick thought and rapier kindness.  Just lay here.

So many reasons to keep us from simply saying what we simply need, but not the least of which is sometimes simple requires an atrophied muscle to gain strength.  A simple thing, but it’s kept us from trying.  And when we try it has kept our mouths zippered, our hands bound to our sides, our whispers jarred and stored on cellar shelves.  It will be better if we don’t try and make right, but instead just try to make it.

Wash out the salt, wash out the sea.  Sail onward from the jetties where we’ve lingered, slip from the sirens and sibyls and keep searching.

 

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