——It was the promise and happiest aim in life–to get to the middle of inexplicable mystery. Surrounded by achievements that are unresolved, as if stretching the boundaries of what is known.  I would arrive at the point where I saw kaleidoscopic confusion, and back myself up by reference to what is and has been loved. It shall be in the surroundings, for I lived in the right places, I have detoured into the settings and now the sequence of familiar days marked by unbelievable, poignant weather, so I stand there, against a curtain of rain, or a deep night, and I always am in the middle of a long daylight– dotted, shot through with experiences, coming back right now!  We’re scrambling all cozy, employable memory, ringing around the corner from life–though it’s suggesting a deep refuge in a never-known history of the very sight before our eyes. I speak in the plural, when I know it is too much . . . to derive the idea of the world from being in it, the past from the present. Where you place your feet, instantly you look up–beyond everything into possibility. Might be in the sky; but it isn’t; the sky is a radical void, and it is still in thought, this promise.
——I know there can be no pretense anymore, in my case. No stalling, like to imagine that mystery is simply one unswept corner, not solved yet of potential knowledge, as if life were just fine in itself, like explainable except for a few questions that haven’t been, mind whirling, cleared up, like during a lifetime already, and so many things just partially grasped.  We do not live smoothly, in a downward state with intermittent woes. We live chaotically, in upwardly moving triumph, always being challenged . . .  I have the picture. How hidebound and cowardly is it to listen to anything less than the happily aspiring, the wanting inward voice?  I am talking, who’s always walking out into the unformed morning, and drifting in at night for no reason. I am exhilarated to deliver flat truth, the unresolved, to take to heart, for it’s like I speak not to others but to myself, in urgent messages.
——Is moribund failure, and broadscale death your silent remedy, all the time? You assign it too freely, nature’s show, place a virtual placard in the yard, telling against circumstance alike, saying “this way” for all lost opportunity, and all that is repugnant.  Do you relate to what is really happening?  Or wait out a thematic, duplicitous marching in clock time?
——This is religion. I hear correctly these cracked chimes. Have we not interposed a personal note in the proceedings? Am I not interpreting correctly all the chatter of my friends, and the wonderful, sidereal, wheeling street-talk, the by now historical television, plastering the view, and the correspondence I thumb through, the rapid assault of mocked up issues and rejection of talk, thrown at me–created thus? I must be in the center of this confusion, and that’s what I said I thought I would achieve. With clarity, I judge now in an idle mood, that I have not invented the set of fantastical, strident theories I face, which tend towards sharing the dumbest idea of all time.  Which is that thought, my thought, is a product of the world, like . . .  the brain. Brain like an add-on that creates a reflective self? Stuttering. That in a wallpapered apartment, fashioned out of fumbling good luck, if not decisions, when it was many decisions of a heroic self, creates a merely random identity? Regarding itself grimly, like the residue embryo swimming in yet another piled-on universe, absurdly beginning, or, I want to say, excrescence of sweat, virtual . . . crud of life.
——Rampaging, purposeless life! Do you think? Are you totally irresponsible, for every little fumbling action on your own part? Or do you just wait to let it happen? I speak in a circle. This so thoroughly wrong and rampant, conglomerate image, I want to say, is essentially personal cop-out fear, that I pick up everywhere, nothing more than that, but which then occurs to me as my own enemy, like my other self–I say, when the fever breaks, still is functioning rather freely, the bleeding wings of a soaring eagle, plummeting–
——Well, I repeatedly think that the refuge faith that mystery is only a corner to be swept up, and not the whole story, not the issue with which we were born–but the continuing issue since, enveloping all your family, the opening idea of life which you have been encouraging with all your heart right along, still and always bluntly to be faced–well, this must somehow be a happily functioning delusion, common to a neighborhood of people undergoing a shared historical trauma. Of some type, that might only need remedy.  A little salt, like language applied to every occasion. .
——This is why I say to people, “It is all still here, you just have put the wrong labels on everything.”