The Swell of Life
The music plays in the dark room as I type.
I feel the poetry, the words and the beat and the patterns as they play.
We're looking for the essence. Not the Platonic form abstracted way out there but the meaning of the thing as we know it, as a part of the world.
The stem of my pipe, a $4 thing I bought at an antique store to learn the art of tobacco, is slightly cracked. Just a hairline. The smoke still draws, filling the air in a curling beauty that reminds me of a womans hair when she's sleeping.
It doesn't look like the hair of a woman sleeping but the poetry is similar.
Heidegger said that language is the house of Being and I don't know what he meant, but if he was right it must have been something like this.
And the poetry brings my world into itself. The narrative forms around us, like the sound of the rain beating on the roof and peppering the window.
The piano pulls away from the music and the poetry of his tired voice works the corners of the dark room. The poetry of it all, of my world, swells and comes to be in silence.