Saturday, September 15, 2012
I am growing. I am growing in two faces. Two faces with two tongues who can move and speak and create on their own. A waltz of two twisted bodies that will never look the same on a page. Not by these two pens.
But there is one mind to think and feel here. One mind that knows one well. And the other unwell. A child with new clothes. Swaddling and swaddled by foreignity. And the other clothed in the garb of a peasant. Tattered and torn, pieces of the years written easily. But thought thoughtfully and placed there in gold and red letter.
“To live is to speak”.
Two faces. Two carved parts of an old tree that grew roots ancient. That split somewhere above the clouds into two trees with old bark and old wood and new leaves in the spring.
These are the movements of life. These are the touches of mortality. To carry the dead and the newborn in one body. To be young, only to be early in our march toward death.
But death is not a verb unconjugated. It is grated over our heads. And turned into the precision of taking one step. We cannot go backwards. Only forwards.
And so my head moves forward through the haze and the through the light. My mind. Growing new limbs, taking new breaths of foreign air that will become familiar air. That will soon become old bark on old trees.
On one face. And on the other.
Somewhere above these clouds there are two trees growing back into one. Making one face of new bark that will become old bark that will become me.