In the beginning there was a void, stasis, dimensionless. I am a point, without size taking form only in motion, so too the seat on which I sit on United flight 951 not going from point A to point B for neither can exist in motion transcending time.
Each decision sets one me on a path, into a dimension, dimensions while I tread a different path and I a third, yet I have seen the step ahead before having been on its path as all random walks must cross endlessly. The universe grows crowded with exponential me’s creating paths, and so must expand, until we cross and in some minuscule amount contract the cosmos.
Often I seek pain to slow the pace, or pleasure to quicken it, always immutable. I have learned all of this in my endless search for my paradoxical twin who prefers the accelerated pace, moving as quickly as possible, who looks younger at each intersection. Good night Albert.
First Appeared in Afterthoughts (Canada), Vol. 2, No. 4, Autumn 1995.
It is easier to think about death on a wintery evening, when so much of life slips into stasis, and there is nothing to do but concede your mortality, and with good fortune, then slip into sleep before being lost in a sea of depression.
I must be thankful for my dreams for they keep the night from becoming the little death of the ancient philosophers, and on awakening in the morning, the mantle of snow that has painted the world in a glittering white, does not demand the shovel as yet, but celebrates the world’s rebirth, and with a nod to the sun, my own.
It is a precarious balance, really, more and exercise in tottering and hearing than in standing still. Some prefer stasis, others, I included, find it leads inevitably to a loss of energy, to an entropy from which it is difficult to escape. I don’t walk along the edge of the precipice, but I do peer over amazed at what lies below that I hope to never see up close. Is a precarious balance, but one that can be maintained if you just close your eyes and sense what actually lies around and beneath you.
It is a precarious balance, really, more an exercise in tottering and hearing than in standing still. Some prefer stasis, others, I included, find that leads inevitably to a loss of energy, to an entropy from which it is difficult to escape. I don’t walk along the edge of the precipice, but I do. peer over, amazed at what lies below that I hope never to see up close. Is a precarious balance, but one that can be maintained if you just close your eyes, and sense what actually lies around and beneath you.
We are in the season of stasis where nothing wants to move and nothing should shed the mantle of snow that has announced winter’s arrival in terms we full understand, as do the finches clinging to the feeder casting nervous glances skyward. The neighbor’s cat has decided that the remote chance of catching a bird or squirrel is easily outweighed by the warmth of the house, and even the dogs down the block have found their own lawns much more to their liking. We know our feet will thaw after our morning walks, but suspect this may happen only with the Spring that seems impossibly far away, and so we imagine ourselves bulbs, clinging to what warmth the earth offers knowing the bloom has infinite patience.
The summer sky barely pauses to consider what might be going on beneath it. Everything seems to move, there can be no stillness. Once in the rarest of whiles, the sky and the river align, and each is frozen in a stasis that defies understanding or categorization. The stars realize this and shine a moment longer.