(no subject)
I know the way is not a way, the door between is not the door between, but if you listen to Alan Watts and then play Alice Coltrane in the mid-afternoon when the sun is streaming in the window through the lilacs and the bees are buzzing in the parsley and children are laughing down the street and everything you held on to is suddenly gone, the orbit of your life thrown off and you find yourself spinning sidelong through what you thought was solid, in that moment, with the harp playing at the sun on your knees, something happens I could only call an explosion, could call running in the forest until I found a deep still pond at the center of me, like RS says, a well we can drink from, here, enough for ever and always, a tunnel to the center of the earth, but not like you thought, not away but deep into, deep into the center of everything you wanted to get away from, the way the safest thing to do in the face of an unswimmable wave is duck straight into the center of it, here, here, holding your own knees, here, finally, here.