« The End Of My January Myth: Art Opening | Main | Out In The Open & Into The World »
Wednesday
Jan092013

Amends

My first resolution for 2013 is to have done with procrastination and all the ill effects that spring therefrom.

*

Yeah. January 9thth. Okay, yes, fine.

*

In addition, 2013, for me, will be about making amends with an emphasis on mending. I’ve recently stumbled into some revelations regarding resentment and fear that essentially understands these experiences as the very events, the sneaky culprits, that construct and perpetuate the self as a self over and against the world (from which of course selfishness quickly follows). What? I know I know. It sounds so high flying and fucked up, and yet? There it is.

When things get too abstract, I begin to starve for images. So, remember that gash on your finger? Such a nasty cut. Here, when I talk about making amends, when I think about mending, I imagine the slow and subtle way a wound heals. When’s the last time you slowed down long enough to think about how crazy and fucked up it is that your body—it just—it… the thing HEALS itself. You swear and drop the knife. Stop the blood. Swear some more. And a few weeks later, the wound—it’s gone. There’s nothing.

And it had nothing to do with you or your will. Your body, slowly, quietly, left to its own devices, mends. And what is mending but restoration? Indeed. What is mending but the slow and wondrous dissolution of mistaken separation? The broken skin isn’t sorry. It doesn’t apologize. It merely returns to its original condition of being unslit.

2013. I resolve to dissolve into being unslit.

To make amends is to lose one’s self in the indiscriminate place between the waves and the shore, where no clear separation is defined—the shore, waves, the shore, waves, this ever mending place of rich exchange between give and take. To be unslit is to ride the wind through trees and leaves and the flowing brown hair of wise women with multi-colored eyes. Go with the blow. Forget what you know. Everything! Forget it all. Until your thoughts are clouds and your dreams are fish and you’re not that, the other thing, and you’re definitely not this.

What will emerge—can you imagine?—when the wound heals, when all is mended, after the slow and wondrous dissolution of all mistaken separation? Who are you and what’s a world in the healed predicament of original unslittedness?

I sure as fuck don’t know. But forgive me or not, here I come.