Incarnation

to K.

For some of us it is really hard to incarnate.

The world of structure, the world of ideas, 

both logic and aesthetics are safer than the

world of that

which is inchoate, and does not speak

in any human tongue. 

It is the human, the bedrock of the human.

(Although philosophers think words or ideas are what makes us human, and call this part the animal or don’t even notice its existence.)

It is the part over which you have no control with thoughts,

or with words.

Structural damage, ageing, illness, limitation –

you can dance around it, arrange your life to avoid collision with it. 

If it happens to be your opponent, enemy, all you will ever see and feel is a wall (the feeling of hitting one, of facing one, of obstruction of it). 

Knowing this is quite painful. Some (most) things you will not see, do, be – some of us know this through illness or disability, to others it’s invisible as long as their desires and abilities are quite within the frame of what humans have designed to be desirable. 

Some of us are at peace with ourselves (apparently),

and they/we are fine not being spirit. 

From that perspective, it does not seem strange to have limitations. It is taken for granted to have definition, to be this (and not that). 

It may be a simple matter of how much this hurts, 

and whether we have been given (or preserved) tools to metabolise pain

into experience and yet remain attached to the original being we inherited. 

Those who have not taken flight from their being

do not see incarnation as astonishing

rather as ordinary and in principle manageable

they haven’t left home.

It is hard to come back,

because you have no power. 

If illness brings you back, you are certain it’s here to kill you

(perhaps you try to hear the message, yet the blood is frozen in your veins.)

it may, 

in the end it’s inchoate and we cannot speak with it

in the way we became accustomed

since we have lost the ability to speak with rocks and plants

in cruelty and subtlety, holding things to the wrong kind of human standard.

(that of light, not that of the dark)

We are both, and it will probably hurt more the older we get. 

a modicum of ease and pleasure seems to be found merely in

synchronising with the inner ticking and pulse of things

colliding with the wall, being the wall, dancing with the wall in turns

some comfort in knowing, this is neither the first nor the last time, and the richness of time branches out into depth. 

the fear burns, you will shed your leaves, nobody knows if the balance of a tree once pruned can be restored. (or maybe someone knows, but it’s not me.) 

we can feel the wall, 

we can also soften into the inner clockwork

in essence it’s not about trust

for me it has always been about coming back to older times.

(my feeling is some of the weirder birds up in London or down in Berlin remember them, too. or else, who would be able to carry an umbrella in such a distinguished manner and not have lived a hundred years.)

A creepy sketch to finish off.

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