——Before anything, it filtered in to me, a blessing, the thought that there was an origin to the mystery.  It was like I arrived with a quandary ready made; a story to solve before anything could really get started. It was in my own hands now, the question of where I was, because I was supplied before anything with an idea that there was an answer. Life was a challenge, beyond my ability. The beginning of an inquiry, which I knew I was not quite capable of managing, even for the first three seconds–the thought of some foundation, some ground, a former place that must have brought me here. To be delegated a task that clearly you are not up to? This I immediately saw,  like a baby, was both meaning and high humor. Life began for me on a note of giddiness. And this happy imperative still envelopes my every move. Haunts my awareness. It was never a question, but the thought of an answer. The sense of possessing a journey.
—–Possibly, I considered, this was a personal debt, I was spoken to as one issued a responsibility; and in such a career it would be always almost consoling to think so–if out of self-pity a needful worship, for the unknown source of any held grief, was therefore born, and the story of salvation drawn.  Or possibly I considered pure mystery as a license to wildness, particularly as I had a handle on its twisting nature, its chief feature, within three seconds of a bursting awareness, now to be relentless.  Following which, adhering to that vanity, surely I would seek to distinguish myself . . . and promote my discoveries.
——Surely, clinging trust in my own first vagueries of thought, has the side effect of exposing how lost and vulnerable I always am, and it configures a God that utterly owns my every move.  But there was personality in these charging first thoughts, and as dependent as I was, I was also coy. I thought I might be able to tend to, and cultivate, the local scenery, and move smartly and seductively among other people, who seemed to be roaming about with no instruction!  I was lordly, even arrogant, and wanting to claim authorship of my own experience. I picked up the very first signals, built duplicity into every utterance, spying, found wide gaps, lack of meaning, before I was even a person.  I sensed early on the task would require total mastery of the obscure. What was going into the forgotten, the slipping into unexplainable death, I set out to deny.
——Does everyone, everyone on their own like I, land in a quandary, swept into the thought of the missing beginning?  Does everyone come into life carrying a burden of truth? Early on, I ask, does embryonic thought barge in and embrace your sudden existence, even before it has got skin? And follow you like in your conscience every minute in your swirling, blanketing obscurity? Does this paper suit fit your embarrassed body?
——In my earliest thinking I could not proceed without a serious, winking compact with total mystery. I was a spirit. Ultimate, reconciling change in reality was guaranteed, revelation always waited for, and scored, as it came in to me, in successive intuitions, generating overwhelming enthusiasm, as life stood proudly upon its obviously insufficient origins.  The foundation was in question, as it related to me–and just so, confidently the world and its supply chest,  its bandied knowledge of itself, was seized in my furious assessment, for a pattern of thought was backing me up also, in tandem with my own emotional grasp of the possible history of the world. Knowledge of everything going on, and learned about the past gone by, was matching what I had imagined, searing and real and all on an equal plane.  As if I gave credit to my teachers for actually having lived in the past they were reporting on;  like I thought they went there and brought something back, at least they flew there in their imagination.  I identified the historical world as a prelude of transcendent origin, a forming mist, made of the forming emotions I had a wish to enact,  an unfinished canvas, upon which primordial landscapes could be painted, and the first utensils of a livable world put in, and heraldic narratives to be filled in, meant for now as symbolic.
——Whether anyone else has isolated it, this notion of a spiritual place that authored them, stamped them in righteousness–or whether the idea of their own rare ushering has just flashed by, and got trashed–however you have faced the isolation, I say–the pact is drawn. The windows in the mind, like the leaves of a book, are open. For the notion of this preface to your own life, that the world is already here when you arrive, that you are flowing in an already established continuum, means that no matter what you do it must compare, and be judged as part of one story, one background ruling the land of reality.  That reality that stretches back to the creation of the ground, the air . . . when you stepped into the picture. How quaint a way to put it: stepped into the picture.  That is exactly the way it is though; insensible and odd, for who would come here unless they were dragged and propped up? And yet, look how immediately busy with little things that are available– it is like you had a built in knack for life.
—–And were profound to begin with. Everything is framed by initial thoughts that are unlocated, the highly audible–I want to say–thought of this answering, originating past. It is providing you with all your strength. Intuition and all later learning, no matter in what blunt form, or insinuation it arrives; or whatever strain of authority seems to provide impartial clues, all sources eventually overlap and coincide, one day in an exciting clash.  Or the next day they blend into a disappointment that is just as . . . exquisite.  For finally a perspective is achieved into which the secret history of thought a person holds as their very identity, and all the fumbling theories they witnessed, are mashed into one . . . tremendous focus. At which point it is kind of — the future.

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